


Nova, We Have a Problem

by divisionten, Pharm



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, One-Shots, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, seriously they're cannon, they're adorable, use google, yes Uno Duo and Trey are cannon characters I didn't make them up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 51,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divisionten/pseuds/divisionten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pharm/pseuds/Pharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of one shots or shorts of all kinds about the Guardians. See first chapter for individual story synopses/pairings/warnings. Many stories center on Rocket, Peter, and/or Groot, with  few on both the '90's Guardians teams and the 2008 Lanning team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Meat Lover's, To Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pharm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pharm/gifts), [SweTor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweTor/gifts), [yornma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yornma/gifts), [Fox (Spacefoxen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacefoxen/gifts), [twelvepercentofaplan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelvepercentofaplan/gifts).



> Hey all! For NaNoWriMo I'm doing a series of short GoTG stories. I love the movies, but I wet my teeth on the comics a few years ago (I'm a massive Sam and Max fan and Rocket/Groot are basically Sam and Max IN SPAAAACE). I am trying to write 50K (about 2K per day), but as some of these stories may be longer than others, this won't be updated daily. Plus I still am working on my other ongoing fic.
> 
> Please leave me prompt recommendations. I can't guarantee I'll do them all, but suggestions welcome and will be used shamelessly with credit to the suggester. Especially if you can suggest something interesting to do with Gamora. She's not as important in the 2008 comic run so I'm not good at characterization with her. Feel free to suggest comic or MCU prompts, I'm going to do a mix of both.

**Table of Contents (scroll past for the start of chapter 1):**

**Since these stories are mostly one shots, I have a table listed below so you can find the specific story you're looking for. Pairings, warnings, and genre listed, unless they directly spoil the plot. Keep in mind that unless a story says that it's in the same continuity as another story, it's an entirely separate thing. Some stories do contradict each other!**

**@ for Continuity A**

**# for Continuity B**

Otherwise, separate one-shot.

 **One Meat Lover's, To Go** : Humor, Peter centric, no warnings, no pairings

[ **When the Chips are Down**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/5705063): Drama, Peter/Rocket, no warnings, no pairings

[ **Knives**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/5717072): Humor, Gamora centric, no warnings, no pairings

 **@[Ain't Nothing Like Me 'Cept Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/5719832)** : Drama, Original '90's Comic Guardians, offscreen limb loss. no pairings 

 **#[This is Why I Hate the Vet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/5738465)** : Drama, Peter/Rocket/Groot, bone breakage, offscreen surgery (no blood), no pairings  ** _*fan favorite_**

[ **Aqua Vitae**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/5838125): Drabble, whole team, implied offscreen character death, no pairings

 **#[Here's Lookin' at You, Kid](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/5838146)** : Drama/Humor, Gamora/Rocket centric, no warnings, Peter/Gamora pairing,  ** _*fan favorite_**

 **#[Fix-it Felix](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/5979593)** : 4+1 story, Rocket centric, no warnings, no pairings

 **#[One Rocket, In a Box, As Ordered](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6052139)** : Humor/Action, Drax centric, no warnings, no pairings

[ **We All Have Dead People**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6066941): Drama, Rocket centric, one character worries whether others are homophobic/transphobic, no pairings,  _ ***this chapter is very divisive.**  Some people utterly love it, others have expressed distaste due to subject matter (discussion of being gay/transgender)._

[ **Art Intermission:**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6231518) Some GOTG artwork and cosplay I've made

 **@[The Eighth and Ninth Dwarves](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6239861)** : Drama, Peter/Yondu/Vance Astro, no warnings, no pairings

[ **One, Eight, and Nineteen**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6294824): Humor, Groot/Rocket/Drax, no warnings, no pairings

[ **Cheer**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6392132): Humor/Fluff, Peter centric, no warnings, no pairings  ** _*fan favorite_**

[ **He Says, She Says**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6424913): Humor, 2008 Andy Lanning Guardians, no warnings, one spoiler pairing

 **@[Two Things are Certain](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6448142)** : Humor, Yondu centric, no warnings, no pairings

[ **Worth**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6450722): Drama, Peter/Rocket, no warnings, Peter/Rocket pairing if you squint really hard  ** _*fan favorite_**

 **#[Crybaby](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6480449)** : Drama, Peter/Rocket centric, no warnings, no pairings  _ ***fan favorite**_

[ **Remember Them**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6649994): Drama, Drax/Rocket, offscreen character death, offscreen body modifications, no pairings

[ **Nova, We Have a Problem**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2565050/chapters/6707123): Drama/Family/Fluff, EVERYBODY!!, offscreen experimentation, Groot/Rocket or Rocket/Gamora pairing if you squint

[1] One Meat Lover's, To Go

Groot noticed it first. He spent most of his time with his feet grounded in the terrarium Rocket and Drax had built for him on the upper deck by the galley, so of course he knew what was going on in one of the two areas most commonly used by the rest of the team. Sure, he could walk around the ship at this point, but the soil and fertilizer system Drax had set up just felt right.

So, when Peter sat up with a data pad in his hand, groaning for the third late shift in a row, Groot knew the curiosity was getting the better of him. He unrooted himself and shakily ambled over to a seat next to Quill. He was reading, silently mouthing words off the pad. Groot boiled them both some water, dropping a heaping spoonful of the flavored caffeine powder the rest of the team practically lived off of into Peter's mug, offering it carefully to his friend.

Quill looked up. "Todah, Groot."

Groot looked puzzled at Quill, sitting down with a bemused look on his face.

"Ani mitzaer," he said, before vigorously shaking his head. "Uh, sorry. Can you understand me now?"

Groot nodded. It was weird, Groot's translator never made errors.

"Ugh, great, now I lost my place," he said sighing, before quickly adding, "Not your fault, Groot. And thanks for the drink." Peter gulped down a large sip, choking on the hot beverage.

It was Rocket, naturally, who found out next. If Groot knows, Rocket always does too; the Grootvine spreads rumor faster than a brushfire.

The next night Rocket makes a big show of changing out Groot's fertilizer cell and a "dead" bulb in his sun lamp. Peter wasn't an idiot. But when he realized Groot overheard him, he knew it would snowball. So he just kept reading his tablet, this time saying the words aloud as he read, instead of simply mouthing them.

"I am Groot."

"No, man, it isn't you. I can't understand it either."

Peter looked up from what he was reading, gaping his mouth in and out like a fish, pointing at Rocket. After a few deep breaths, he spoke.

"Course you can't understand it. It's English."

"Ing leash? Terran language?" Rocket cocked his head to one side, curious. Peter remembered that despite his crass mannerisms and tough demeanor, Rocket was the smartest person on the ship by a wide margin, with Groot in a distant second. Aside from heavy weaponry, languages seemed to be a ting Rocket liked. He could understand Groot, of all things, and had actually tried teaching some to the rest of the team one night to abject failure. Nobody else could hear the undertones in Groot's speech, let alone decipher them.

"Yeah. I don't think your implants have it. Have to add certain languages custom."

"What's with the desire to read Terran literature all of a sudden?"

"You heard about the Chitauri attack on Ear-Terra. The Nova Corps is trying to wrangle a team to serve as diplomats and officially welcome humanity to the sentient universe. But, as we don't have translation implants back home, even if Nova sent a team with English, or, I dunno, Chinese added to their software so that they could understand what humans said, there's no way anybody on Earth will understand THEM. So, I'm trying to learn to read at the level of not-a-fourth-grader. Haven't had much chance to practice speaking or reading English in the last two and a half decades. Nova Prime wanted me to write up a primer on learning English, but I'm not much better than asking a kid."

"Gimmie," Rocket replied, pulling his booster chair up next to Peter's seat. "This will be nineteen."

'Nineteen?" Quill asked skeptically.

"Nineteen languages I'm fluent in. Start talking, hairless."

The following night, Drax sat down, and he was prepared to learn. Peter was expecting being ignored (they all had their own share of weird hobbies) or, at worst, lightly ribbed by Rocket and Gamora, but he wasn't expecting a freaking classroom. Like, with lined note paper and everything.

Drax brought a notebook and an inking brush, of all things. Freaking calligraphy paper.

"Proper handwriting is important. Particularly for expedited communication in a classified meeting," Drax simply remarked as he took his place at the galley table.

Peter expected Gamora to come the following night, and she was already there, with a pen and paper in hand before he'd even been ready with that evening's lesson (with extra work for Rocket, as he was already reading Dr Seuss. After three days.). What he wasn't anticipating was the plate of chocolate filled cookies.

"Rocket looked up Milano in English, and said it was a pastry. I did not believe him until Groot found some images from the Terran internet. As it seems, occasionally Rocket can choose not to pull stupid stunts on people."

"Did you make these?" Peter asked, fearing the worst. Gamora was an assassin, a sharp wit, and a wonderful companion. But a cook, she wasn't.

"Drax did. I only assisted in converting the recipe from Terran weights and measures to Xandarian."

Peter knew he would eventually tell the crew about family names. But, hey, tonight, he had free cookies.

He bit into one, and it tasted like home.

It was all of two weeks before Peter was having serious- like giving instructions on repairing the broken cold storage serious- conversations with Rocket in English. Groot could clumsily type out sentences in a free tablet, and enjoyed watching old episodes of I Love Lucy they could manage to catch from old broadcast waves. Drax's excellent penmanship led him to studying Earth calligraphy, and loopy copies of old illuminated manuscripts were tacked to the grating in the cargo hold. Gamora continued to work with Drax on food, and their dinner table slowly became an English-only zone (except Groot, but extenuating circumstances), complete with Drax's attempts at spaghetti and meatballs or tacos with the ingredients they had on hand.

One month in and Rocket was making jokes and double entendres, and Drax and Gamora were holding most of their basic conversation. In freaking English.

By two months, English was their go-to language, and practically a secret code. They could yell strategy to each other in battle as loudly as they wanted, and their foes never could predict their movements. Eventually, English might become more prevalent in implants used by the people in the underworld that thought the Guardians might come knocking on their door, but, for now at least, they all had something that was theirs and theirs alone.

Three months in, and Quill submitted his first primer to Nova Prime for a very nice sum of money, edited by Rocket, with penmanship sections neatly made by Drax. Cultural and etiquette notes were provided curtesy of Groot and Gamora. Nova Prime was nothing short of shocked.

"Your entire team speaks English?" she asked, at a debriefing meeting once the primer was passed through the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

"Well, some more than others," Rocket said, pointing at his current perch.

Nova Prime gritted her teeth, deciding hard on what to say next.

"We are running out of time. Word from Asguard is that Frost Giants have been attacking several cities on Terra. We need to send a token of our aid, and an open hand to the Terrans sooner than later. If we do not, they will begin to believe the default state of civilization away from their own is aggressive and destructive. Proper diplomatic relations can come in due time, but we need to make first contact and offer our assistance before they turn outward to the universe with a hawkish gaze."

"You want us to represent Xandar?" Drax asked.

"It is not that I have no other options," Nova Prime finally said, weary, "but there are few. And Peter is from the planet, which may help. Will you go, with our blessing?" she asked, and then promptly added, "And our payment."

"How the heck we handling this, Quill?" Rocket asked, upon returning to the ship. "We enter their airspace, yell 'Take us to your leeeeeeadeeer' or summat and hope for the best?"

"Better idea," Quill said, after a few minutes. "Pizza."

"Pizza?!"

Rocket had to admit that this was actually a really good plan. It made the Guardians look a bit (okay, a lot) stupid, but this also meant that they would look a heck of a lot less threatening and far more relatable.

They were not going to a major city. They were not announcing their arrival. They were not tuning off the Milano's cloaking.

They were going to order a pizza.

Rocket put on the boots he wore when working in the engine room. Drax actually wore a shirt. Groot, currently just shy of Peter's height, borrowed some of his old clothing. Gamora muttered something under her breath that could almost be mistaken for 'adorable'.

Gamora and Peter scouted a good location, debating whether to stop close enough to a major city like New York or Los Angles or really go somewhere rural to make any government officials go a long way to them. As long as they steered clear of Alabama.

Eventually, they had decided on Ohio (mostly because Groot called it Ooooo-oooo), turned on the cloaking, and scanned the surface until they found a suitable suburb. Gamora landed the ship in an empty lot, and the five of them strode out of the vehicle.

"Yeah, can we have one Hawaiian pizza please?"

The person behind the counter, an eighteen-ish year old girl in blonde pigtails, just stared in shock. She would have thought these guys were costumed for some kind of party, but the tree person's proportions were just too off. Plus there was that raccoon in clothes sitting, arms crossed, on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, but it's no shoes, no shirt, no service," she finally squeaked out.

"Told you, Groot. Sorry bud, you'll need to wait outside."

Groot let out a low whine and pushed the door open, looking dejectedly at his too-large stumps, as Rocket shouted from his perch, "And Quill, if you're getting freaking cheese and fruit on the same darn pizza I ain't eating it. Get something else too."

"A side of cheezy bread."

"For us five, Quill? Really?" Gamora asked. "I don't think that's enough food."

"…and one meat lover's pizza. To go."

The rest of the transaction went by quickly and quietly, and Drax took the boxes with a simple "Thank you very much for the food," and the remaining three Guardians were out the door as quickly as they had entered.

"Boss?" the girl asked to an older man in back when the last of the group had disappeared.

"Yeah, Chelsea?"

"Did we just serve pizza to aliens? With Southern accents?"


	2. When the Chips are Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pissed off client causes Rocket to do something he never does- apologize.

[2] When the Chips are Down

Groot was the sweetest person any of the Guardians had ever known. He was just… good. Like if pure niceness was personified, it would be Groot. Peter Quill thought either that or his mom's stovetop mac n' cheese, but Groot was definitely up there as goodness in physical form.

Which is why, after their recent mission on Trongda, Peter could not understand after a simple "I am Groot" in their client's presence, flew the short, bulbous govenor into a rage. Tyran Deesa, the local head of the district, went from grateful to growling in three seconds flat.

"I am Groot!" Groot bellowed, seemingly angry. Tyran's demeanor changed back to calm and collected so fast Peter wasn't sure if he'd dreamt the encounter.

Back on the ship, Groot sulked into a corner, which Peter understood. Groot did not like upsetting others and he was probably very upset. But it was the fact that Rocket also looked away from Peter from the rest of the afternoon, hiding any form of eye contact, that made Peter realize there might be something more to the whole situation. Peter decided to let them sleep on it as he set autopilot for their next stop, then rested. He'd talk to them privately the following morning.

He didn't even need to. Rocket was already waiting outside Quill's door, without Groot, head down.

"Got a minute, Pete?" he asked.

"Come on in," Peter gestured, as he slid open the bulkhead door. Peter sat down on his bunk, and Rocket perched on his dresser.

Peter closed the door with his foot and then laid down on the bed, looking up at Rocket. "Sup?"

"Sorry, about today, I mean." Rocket was fidgeting with a small piece of something in his hands. A coat hanger?

"You didn't do anything wrong. I don't know why that A-hole flipped out on us, but, seriously, wasn't your fault. Unless…?"

"Pretty sure Tyran understood Groot, so yeah. My fault."

Peter shot up. "What the heck did Groot say?"

Rocket's fur puffed out. "I think, I'd like to keep that to myself. But let's just put it this way, Groot makes filthier jokes than either of us combined."

Peter's eyes were as big as saucers. "I always thought you were making crap up, translating for Groot."

"S' cause you can't hear for crud, or smell. Flora Collosi speak in a mixture of whistles and pheromones. The talking bit is just out of respect for us mouth breathers. Groot don't do that none when he was around his own kind, or just talking to me. The words or intonation don't matter."

Rocket shook his head, running his claws through the fur on his face to smooth it back down. "When Groot realized I could understand him, he was, like, really happy. He's crazy smart, and witty, but he's not made for a world with people who talk and can conduct electricity through their fingers. He can't even use a data pad without one'a those styluses. This universe is barely made for me, him less so. So we has a bet. Whenever we'd talk to our clients, he'd say some horrible dirty retort at their expense. If I laughed, he'd get an 80% cut. We shared the money anyway, but it was the gesture. It was our game."

Rocket looked down.

"It was one thing when it was just us. Once in a rare while, like once a year or less, someone would understand 'im. He'd apologize, or pretend he'd whistled wrong or summat, and we'd run for the hills if that didn't work. But you guys don't need to be dragged inna that."

"You kidding me? I think that's awesome," Quill said with a wicked grin. "Keep it up, you two big idiots. Under one condition."

Rocket looked at him incredulously. "Condition?"

"If you start laughing, you have dish duty. For a week."

"You are a grade A A-hole."

"Oh, and tell me what Groot's saying later. If he's half as good as you say, I need to learn from the Jedi Master."


	3. Knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gamora does not know how to cook.

[3] Knives

Gamora, master assassin, talented seamstress (someone had to sew them back up after a mission gone awry, both their clothing and their bodies), and fairly decent spaceship pilot, had one major weakness.

She could not cook.

Normally, this would not be an issue. Under Thanos, meals were provided. On missions, she was given packed lunches or enough currency to feed herself. She was never shown a kitchen. Her only memories of one dated far back to childhood, and those were faded away to blurred shapes.

However, Peter had set up a rotational. Certain maintenance tasks on the ship were given only to some of the team; Rocket took care of the hyperdrive and septic systems, Drax cleaned and stored their weaponry, and Gamora did the aforementioned patching up. Peter was the primary liaison with the Nova Corps, and Groot's special task was… unique. He grew edible flowers, leaves and even fruit to supplement their diets. The first night, when Peter was halfway through a purple fruit Groot had sprouted for them, Rocket leaned in and whispered, "You're eating one of his ooooooovariiiiiiessss".

The choking sound could be heard around the ship.

"Oh, come on, has nobody taught you anything about plant biology?" Rocket said, stuffing his face with a similar piece, but a brighter shade of blue. "Unless you subsist on air and water like he does, you're eating somebody or something." Rocket swallowed the rest down, pit and all. "Or would you rather get, I'unno, scurvy or summat? He offered to us and it don't hurt him none."

"There is a joke about eating in here somewhere, but I am not going to say it," Peter finally said, holding the half eaten fruit in his hands. He turned it over a few times, before admitting defeat and resuming his snack. He looked up at Groot, sunning himself under an artificial light Rocket had rigged. "You really are the friggin' giving tree."

As long as the team didn't think about it too long, having the fresh herbs and vegetation was a welcome change in their diets.

A bowl of which and some meat from the cold storage were now looking up at her from the galley countertop. Gamora had no idea what to do. She would not have admitted it to anyone, and was secretly glad she got everything other than cooking first in her rotational- cleaning the head, disinfecting the ship, washing dishes. Everyone else loved the week they had to cook- not only did it mean they didn't have to do 'chores', they also were out of dish duty.

Each of the other four had already had their turn; it had already been a month onboard. Gamora was actually impressed. Each of them had a unique style, one that she used to actually understand her companions more. Peter made food that paired well with beer- smoked meat, breads and pastas, cheese dishes, salty but not distractingly so. Rocket, much to her surprise, cooked mostly vegetarian dishes with nuts, seeds, and root vegetables, occasionally with some dried fish on the side, with deep hearty flavor even though he used almost no meat. Groot's dishes were light, and always served over rice, with edible flowers and some sort of egg for protein, which he did not eat (the reason why Rocket cooked as he did making far more sense). And Drax made heavy, spicy stews, ones eaten by rolling slabs of spongy bread into the pot, separating the meat into a smaller bowl. He'd noticed Groot's eating habits as well.

But Gamora? She had no. Freaking. Idea. She knew the meat she'd picked needed to be put to flame, the vegetation was likely okay while raw, but what else? She knew she should probably spice the food, or cut it, or…

"Hey, Greenie, problem? You've been holding your knife over the meat like you're gonna assassinate it, not cook it." Rocket stood behind her, nose twitching.

'Great,' Gamora thought, 'he looks hungry.'

"I… I do not know how to cook," she finally said, a bit deflated. "I just pulled out things I'd seen before."

"Lesse here," Rocket said, pulling a stool over to stand at the counter. "A slab of yak shoulder, that'll take a day to stew. We can prep that now for tomorrow, but that's not going to be ready in time for dinner. Unless you have my teeth," he said, baring his canines. "S' way too tough unless it's been cooked a long time. Let's put that in the pressure cooker for a day, that's super easy."

Gamora pulled the pressure cooker from the latch, and set it up on the counter.

"Turn it to the lowest setting, let's heat it up," Rocket said. "Cube the meat, for us, wouldja, big hunks of it? I'm going to get stuff to make a roux."

Gamora took the slab of meat and deftly did as Rocket requested. It was cubed with neat precise measurements before Rocket even returned.

"Well shit, Gamora, you've got a promising career as a sous chef if this don't work out." Rocket let out a low whistle. He pulled down a pan and some oil, and while the pan heated to the temperature he wanted, Rocket pulled out something akin to a ski mask and pulled it over his head. "Nobody wants fur in their food," he said, as he tested the heat of the pain with a small amount of ghee he'd nabbed from the pantry.

"'Fore you stew anything, you want to sear it first. Tastes better," he grunted. "Spread a bit of oil down, please, then add the cubes. Don't let 'em touch in the pan."

Gamora did as she was told, and listened to the meat sizzle and hiss as it made contact with the hot surface. The mouthwatering smell was almost immediately overpowering. Rocket worked with her to sear the meat, make a roux, and transfer everything to the pressure cooker.

"Tomorrow mornin' just add some veggies you like. Stick to tougher stuff- tubers, mushrooms, roots, that sort of thing. Cube 'em up and stick 'em in, let it all cook on its own for eight hours or so. I'll help you season it tomorrow."

"What about tonight's dinner?"

Rocket looked down at the vegetables she had chosen. "Groot's probably going to be a better resource than me. I'll go grab 'im." Gamora looked horrified. "Don't worry, Greenie, I'll translate."

A few minutes later, Groot loped over to the galley, Rocket perched on his shoulder, still wearing the ridiculous mask.

"Grooo…" Groot hummed softly as he looked at what Gamora had picked out. He looked up at the clock hanging by the table, counting off on his fingers, and started his usual litany of 'I am Groot's.

"How does stuffed leaves sound?" Rocket said. His tone was different. Gamora thought Rocket was doing his best to keep Groot's original intent intact as much as possible.

"Stuffed… leaves?"

"Edible leaves, filled with minced meat, vegetables, and some form of carbohydrate. Rice and barley are common," Rocket enunciated much more clearly than usual, dropping the slurred together words that typically defined his own speech. "'S one of Groot's favorites, too," he said, and Gmora could see why Rocket did it, to try to distinguish his translation for Groot with his own voice.

Gamora wasn't too keen on the idea by itself, but if this was something Groot liked why not?

"I thought you didn't eat meat," Gamora said, addressing Groot directly.

"Cannot. Or at least, can eat only a little. My body does not process protein as yours do. We will make a few without meat in them and set them aside." Gamora was having trouble holding back a laugh hearing Rocket talk like this. Out of his mouth, it almost sounded stilted.

"Okay, how shall we begin?"

"Gamora, this is unfair," Peter said, an hour and a half later at dinner. "You should just be our cook."

"No, thank Rocket and Groot. They helped me make tonight's dinner and prepare tomorrow's. I mostly just cut things."

Peter gave her a warm smile. "And that's why we have you around, isn't it?"

"I guess it is."

"Tomorrow's already booked then, why don't I teach you mac 'n cheese for the day after?" Peter said, wagging his fork at Gamora.

"More cheese, man? You're going to make us all fat, Quill. I can barely fit into my jumpsuit," Rocket said, teasingly.

"You were also emaciated when we found you, friend Rocket," Drax said. "Your health has improved considerably since Xandar."

"Yeah, yeah, fatten me up before yas eat me. I knows how it is. Gamora, you're gonna need to make me sommat bigger soon."

"Keep teaching me and a fair trade it is."

"I would be happy to find some Zen Whoberi recipes for us to try, friend assassin," Drax added.

"I am Groot!" Groot added, sprouting a flower Gamora vaguely remembered from her childhood. It expanded, folded inwards on itself, and slowly bore fruit in the span of five minutes. As she watched it ripen right on Groot's arm, she let out a small gasp. It was a harkwa, growing right on Grot's limb. Groot looked down, nodded at his handiwork, and passed the fruit to Gamora.

Gamora understood why cooking wasn't a chore to anyone on the ship. It was… fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request by Auua Ytjoml for a Yondu story will be next. GOOD IDEA AND I CAN ACTUALLY WRITE VANCE ASTRO FANFICTION SO THANK YOU! Keep the requests coming, guys!


	4. Ain't Nothing Like Me 'Cept Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Initiation was supposed to be easy.

[4] Ain't Nothing Like Me 'Cept Me

I... what the heck… something wasn't right.

I felt deaf.

No, wait, that was wrong, I realized, as I could slowly hear the hum of something mechanical. I wasn't deaf at all.

It was far, far, worse.

I was alone. I could not feel any signs of life anywhere around me. I couldn't even feel my own. I reached my hand up to my neck and felt my pulse, but the flow of life energy? Not even the lightest hum. Was this some sort of afterlife? Did I take some kind of medicine I could not remember during the initiation trails that dampened my senses?

I breathed out. That seemed pretty likely. We were all given a foul smelling liquid to drink before we had to go out for our hunts. I remember my head feeling quite strange an hour in, and the lights and the fire…

This was all part of the test. There was nothing to fear. It made sense that the elders were testing us on our ability to hunt without our empathetic awareness of all living beings. Centurians were well known for this skill, and if a simple drink could temporarily disable it, having it revoked during initiation was a wise move. If we did not know how to fend for ourselves without the ability to know where every living being was at all times, we could easily be targeted and incapacitated.

First, I needed to figure out where I was. Then, find my weapon, kill the beast tagged with my name, and drag it back to our camp. The task had seemed almost laughably easy when we had been told what our rite of initiation into adulthood would be.

Now I understood why it was a fitting challenge.

The first order of business was orienting myself. I slowly sat up in the cot, kicking the blanket off. I was bandaged on my left arm, some slight scorch marks on my skin peeking through the edges, but it didn't hurt and smelled of some sort of salve. Did Sorka do it? She was always the best with medicine. I'd need to find the rest of the group, too.

I stood up, slightly uneasy, and found the remainder of my clothes laid next to me. I dressed, and tried to find my way out of the tiny metallic room.

It was then, reflected in one of the panes, that I saw it.

My frill was gone.

Well, not entirely, tiny, burnt ends were still clinging to my skull. I could move them, only barely. That was why I couldn't feel anyone's life force.

One on my senses had been snuffed out for good.

* * *

 

Vance Astro, Xandarian microbiologist, was piloting the tiny hunk of junk spaceship as best he could manage, trying to get the heck out of Dodge. Badoon ships were closing in on the Centurian homeworld, shooting down any craft trying to leave and spewing laser blasts of pure fire onto the planet's surface.

Vance was a scientist. Vance did not know how to fight back, or do much else besides measure moss growth rates for designing better dermal salves. He'd saved the one kid that had almost literally stumbled onto his landing site and research lab, but he didn't really have time to do anything of value for the Centurians. He'd already buzzed his company back in Xandar, but right now, he was just trying to get as far away from the fight- no, slaughter- that was taking place far below. He'd cleared the solar system, just as more Badoon ships arrived. He may have been spared by the fact that his ship was clearly labeled as Xandarian, because the Badoon approaching neither hailed him nor shot. They let him pass without incident.

Vance slowed the ship down and set the autopilot for a course back to Taspis, a Nova controlled planet much closer to them than Xandar. He could get the kid some much needed medical attention sooner, and in a safe location.

No sooner had he finished outlaying coordinates did he hear a scream from his cabin.

'Boy's up,' he thought to himself. 'This will be fun.'

* * *

 

I didn't try and scream. It just escaped my lips the moment I ran my fingers on the top of my head. My frill, the organ that allowed me to feel and sense everyone and everything, was burned away like a fragile leaf caught in a campfire.

A door slid open sideways, and I readied my fists.

"Oi, oi, oi, tomarinasai," the voice said, forcefully but not angrily, putting its (his?) hands up in a defensive stance. He wore plastic clothing, had skin the color of sand, and short brown fur atop his head. "Chotto…" he added, as I lowered my fists down but continued to glare. "Kotoba ga zenzen wakaranai sou desu…"

He opened a drawer and my hands were back up, ready to strike. He didn't look strong or particularly muscular, so he might have been reaching for a weapon. Instead, he pulled a small silver contraption out of the drawer and showed it to me. I'd seen one before. The Elders who spoke with those from Outside wore them in their ears. It allowed them to understand the language of the Others.

I dropped my fists entirely and he cautiously walked towards me, hands out to show he meant no harm. I titled my head towards him and he separated the pieces out. One was a thin, sharp looking needle. If it meant understanding what my captor had to say, I would have to deal. I held my breath and let him grab me in a headlock. The man was not strong, I could always throw him off if he decided to do more than stick the translation device in my ear.

"Honto ni sumimasen ga," he said as a sharp, momentary pain spread through my ear and head, "this is going to sting. Can you understand me, kid?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to find my voice. "You understand me?"

"Yeah, no problem. You in pain at all? Other than the ear, I mean. That'll probably ring for a few days."

"No pain, sir," I said, trying to be as neutral and polite as possible. The man in front of me didn't seem like he'd caused what had happened, and I might even be able to get some information out of him. Something I wouldn't be able to do if he were unconscious.

"Then you might want to sit down." He said exasperated. "and, uh, sorry I scared you. I know the orange thing you guys have on your heads lets you feel everything around you, so me entering here probably made you flip out. I have your bow and arrows in the cockpit if you want them back."

"How, how did I loose it?" I asked shakily.

"Laser cannon fire. The Badoon are attacking your home planet. I'm taking you to another planet for medical attention. I know someone who can give you a new one. It'll be cybernetic, but…"

"Cyber what? Is this thing not working correctly?" I asked pointing at my ear.

"You didn't communicate with the rest of the universe, uh, hm. You know what machines are, right?"

"Yes."

"I can have them give you a machine that will do the same thing your frill did."

"I won't be able to go back if you do. Hunters are supposed to rely on skill alone. Even needing a splint means exile."

The sandy man just shook his head. "You probably can't go back anytime soon, kid."

"Yondu," I corrected. "Yondu of the Udonta tribe."

"Yondu, think it over. You're going to be stuck with me for a while anyway."

"I can go back," I suddenly shouted, my rage of the situation catching up with me as my body pushed forward and grabbed the man's shoulders before I realized I was probably breaking bone. I softened, and released. He winced, but made no cry of pain. "I can go back, I can fight."

"Not against laser fire," he said stiffly, before turning on his heel and exiting the room. "You have free reign of my ship. Let me know if you need anything."

* * *

 

"You have the count to five and them I'm gonna blow up your ship," the curt voice said over comms. The small, furry creature bared a set of sharp canines at the screen. I also noticed some metal plates at his clavicle. A cyborg.

I ran my hand along the orange plastic frill atop my head as I considered my response.

At the very least, my idiot son Peter had good taste in friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the prompt, Auua Ytjomi!


	5. This is Why I Hate the Vet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter knew this was a bad idea, but Rocket had his reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I begin, some short notes on stories 1-4:
> 
> [1] I used Hebrew for untranslated English. If I ever need to do that again (probably will if I do some Kid!Peter stories) I'll stick with Hebrew for convention.
> 
> [2] Groot is implied to be really smart in the 2008 comic run, and REALLY filthy in the 2014 Rocket Raccoon comics. I decided to run with it.
> 
> [3] I can totally see Gamora knowing what plants are safe to eat in the wild, etc, but not have any cooking skills. Thanos needed ways to keep a leash on her. I'm going to give her another crutch in an upcoming story.
> 
> [4] Yeah, yeah, I made Vance a Xandarian. Him being from Earth wouldn't make much sense and would detract from the short. Other than that, it's a recreation of Yondu's origin story in spirit (the Centurains in the comics that survived the Badoon attack did exile Yondu for having prosthesis, but it wasn't his frill he had replaced). Oh, and untranslated Xandarian is Japanese.
> 
> Again, if you have a prompt, please share! I'm willing to do pairings, as long as it's T. And you may be surprised what I may do with your suggestions…
> 
> Warning on this chapter: contains bone breakage, surgery (no blood) and other things associated with hospitals. It is NOT a hurt/comfort fic (more like a, well, I don't want to spoil, but it's not hurt/comfort).

[5] This is Why I Hate the Vet

"…fifty thousand units for any intel, and they will more than double that- a hundred and twenty thousand total- if you can get us some definitive evidence. Evidence that we can use in a court proceeding, Quill, so it had better be legally earned," Nova Prime said, before cutting out the transmission. Rocket had been in his bunk, banging loudly on his new toy, but he could have sworn he heard 'units' from the upper deck and that always perked his interest.

It was a shame he'd missed what the assignment was, but for a hundred grand? He did not care.

He made a low whistle when Quill whipped around from the captain's seat.

"We are not taking this job, Rocket, so no ideas," he said sternly.

"It's just an intel mission."

"Yeah, one YOU would have to do. ALONE. No. Not happening," Quill said defiantly.

"Arright, hairless, now you have my interest. I'm callin' a team meetin' and I want to hear what it is 'fore I choose to accept it or not," Rocket shot back.

Quill sighed, exasperated, running a hand through his hair. "Fine."

* * *

 

Peter was right; by all accounts they should politely tell Nova "Not happening in a million years," and walk away. According to Nova Prime, the situation was as follows, printed neatly on white paper from the dispenser, enough copies for all five Guardians to read:

_1\. A galaxy-renowned private hospital famous for cybernetic implants has been treating people with very unusual implants in their bodies (artificial voiceboxes, custom limbs, etc.) after the parts have broken down, especially if the part's creator cannot perform the operation needed._

_2\. Some of those people, months or even years later, are tracked down, and their implants removed (or, in some cases, the person in question missing entirely)._

_3\. Said hospital wants to see if there is internal sabotage and/or smuggling, because this is Very Bad For Business and have put up quite a stake of money for those who can catch the issue._

_4\. The Guardians have not one but two members with custom augmentations, and the hospital director, through Nova Prime herself (as the Xandarian government funds quite a bit of their medicinal research), has quietly requested that they go in under the pretenses of needing something fixed. Naturally, this would require that whomever goes has to have something broken, or else whomever is sabotaging their operations (if it is indeed someone within the hospital) will know there is a spy._

Rocket knew once he finished reading #4 that it would have to be him. Gamora had nanobots in her system; if one of her cybernetics was seriously damaged, they would autorepair it. Minor corrosion and similar small maintenance issues were not done by the nanos, but you wouldn't check into the hospital for rust.

"I'll do it," Rocket said, finally.

"You're nuts," Peter said. "One, you'll have to break something on yourself. Two, we won't be allowed into the operating room with you, so if someone's in there stealing information on you to go kidnap you lat-"

"Stop right there, Quill. I got this. Also, what happens when I do break summat? Not if, when. They're the best hospital in the galaxy and I have a feeling if, sorry, when, something does go kablooey that's where Nova would send us. I'd feel better knowin' there wasn't some psycho workin' there stealing patient info and using it to line his or her pockets later. Also, I don't want my parts stolen, thanks. Without 'em, I'd be…" Rocket trailed off and looked forlornly at Groot. "I'd just be some dumb animal again," he said with agitation. He didn't want to admit that someone stealing implants bothered him on a very personal level. He would find out who was behind it, even if it meant surgery. And sterile environments. And doctors, and…

He decided to stop thinking about it before he really did turn the offer down. He thought of the money instead. And then an idea hit him.

"If you are really going to go through with this, friend Rocket, you need to think carefully on what we will have to disable. Something that you would need hospitalization for, but not harm you too adversely. Your voice would probably work well; you could still type," Drax said thoughtfully. That was what Rocket had originally considered the best course of action as well, but he had realized an even better idea.

"Naw, I was thinking something a little less 'burn a few wires' and more 'break a few bones'," Rocket said, a wicked grin on his face. "I've seen lots of people with voiceboxes. Not many have hips that do this," he said, as he went from a perfectly erect position to being on all fours, breaking into a run and climbing straight up Groot's side. "If the thief is goin' after weird, I think my hip or my shoulder fits the bill much better."

"You're not seriously," Peter started.

"Gonna do it," Rocket said, cutting in, "gonna do it right, yeah Groot?"

Groot nodded in approval.

"You're AGREEING with him?" Quill shouted. "Now I know you're nuts."

"Hey, Greenie," Rocket said, still clutching Groot's arm, addressing the only one who had remained silent through the entire exchange, "get me the best painkillers we got."

"I do not approve of this," Gamora said dryly, knowing full well how Rocket's internal mechanisms were wired. Between her and Groot, the two of them were the ones that helped Rocket with minor repairs. She stood up, and walked past her shortest companion and discreetly shot him a wink. "However I understand your concerns and will get you the strongest thing I can find."

"This is so wrong," Peter said, clutching his hair, just shy of pulling tufts out of his skull.

"I think it is quite brave," remarked Drax. "Shall I cause the break? I promise it will be quick and clean."

"I am Groot," Groot replied. Drax did not need a translation from Rocket to know that he would be the one to do it.

Gamora came back with the pain medications, a water bottle and some cold dripping towels.

"Last chance to chicken out," Peter said, a little deflated.

"Nope," Rocket said, swallowing a handful of pills and water in a giant gulp.

"Wait a half hour for those to kick in, Rocket," Gamora chided.

"Yeah. Oh, and Quill? We should wait at least six hours before going to the hospital. This stuff'll have me loopy for eight, I won't feel it. And Gamora? Hack off one of Groot's arms and give him some serious scrapes, too. Cover is we got hit real bad on a mission. Groot took most of the blast and crushed me under his weight, which'll explain a break but no cuts or bleedin'. Blunt force trauma."

Groot nodded in agreement, as Rocket began drifting into sleep. Once he was completely out and sleeping soundly, Groot passed him to Gamora, who carefully disrobed Rocket. Peter turned his head and put his Walkman onto the loudest possible volume, but even that didn't completely drown out the sickening snap to follow.

* * *

 

They'd dressed him in one of his old jumpsuits, patched to heck and stained with what they hoped was oil and not alien blood, but probably both. Gamora and Drax carefully hacked away at Groot, going for a balance of looking like he'd been in a fight without actually preventing him from being able to carry Rocket to the ER. Groot almost looked pleased when the two finished, which made Peter even more uncomfortable. Unlike Rocket, Peter knew that Groot losing a limb (hah) was painless, but it still made him uneasy. Next Drax was going to displace his shoulder, or something, just to show them he could.

Peter would accompany, partially because he was a fantastic liar and partially because he was seriously freaked out by Rocket with a shattered hip. Made it look much more convincing.

The minute they had touched down on the emergency landing pad, Groot scooped up Rocket with his one remaining hand, cradling him carefully, before bolting out the door, moaning "Grooooooo!" and trailing vines behind him. Peter huffed and followed him as fast as possible.

"We need the E.R. for cybernetics, now!" Peter yelled at the first nurse he saw. "Groot, here!" Peter added frantically.

Groot barreled back around and a nurse looked the pair over. "Grooo…" Groot said, almost crying, holding out a limp Rocket.

"We gave him painkillers when it happened, but they're probably going to wear off soon, Peter said, huffing and panting. "Groot and him got attacked on a job, Groot got thrown on top of Rocket, here. We think a rib is shattered or something."

"You said cybernetics?"

"He's got custom joints," Peter said, working the old tears-in-the-corner-of-his-eyes. "And implants all up his back. I think some of his bones are alloy, too. Can you help him?"

"Let's get him to a gurney. Your friend is going to be fine," the nurse said, already having two assistants wheel Rocket away and inside. "Can we help you too?"

Groot looked down at his missing arm, following the nurse's gaze, and shrugged, turning sideways to show the fresh vines already regrowing. He grabbed at Peter's sling bag and teased out a datapad.

'I WILL BE JUST FINE, THANKS. THERE IS A REASON I'M SENT TO THE FRONT ON MISSIONS.'

"Can I get you painkillers… sir?" the nurse asked, shakily.

'THEY WOULD HAVE NO EFFECT, BUT THANK YOU. WHERE CAN WE WAIT?'

* * *

 

Peter thought the wait would be boring. He hadn't really thought Groot the type to write, it almost seemed as if he preferred Rocket translating for him, like the two of them had their own private secret. But here, without Rocket in sight and the datapad in Groot's lap as he ticked away, Peter discovered Groot to be an erudite and witty partner. Even though the break had been done safely, it was still distressing Groot a lot- that or Groot was a better actor than Peter (which Quill did not want to admit was an alarming possibility).

"Your friend is the short, fuzzy one, yes?" an A'askavarian nurse in scrubs eventually asked. "They've finished the repairs. His hip was shattered, from severe force. You accidentally fell on top of him, correct?" he said, addressing Groot.

"Grooo…" Groot said quietly, looking down.

"Don't worry," he said kindly, with as gentle a smile as an A'askavarian could provide. "We have him resting in a room. The anesthesia should wear off within the hour. Other than that, he is in good condition. We will probably have him stay the night, and can release him tomorrow. He won't need crutches, his cybernetics should jumpstart his muscles' healing, no problem. He'll probably even be able to walk when he wakes."

"I wish I could do that if my freaking HIP was CRACKED IN HALF," Peter mumbled under his breath, a sigh of genuine relief.

The nurse smiled again. "That one is a fighter."

"You have no idea," Peter said. Groot nodded in agreement.

* * *

 

It wasn't even thirty minutes later when a team of nurses ran over to the now-exhausted pair of Guardians.

"You didn't tell us he was your PET," one said, angry and stern.

"What?" Peter asked in surprise. "He's not, he's our mechanic. And if you make one comment about him being an animal or something, I swear to- heck, I just swear you are getting a fist in your face."

"He's not acting like a person," another said, "He's jumped up on an IV drip and hissing."

"That's because he absolutely hates hospitals," Peter said, just as sternly. Let me go talk to him and calm him down. He flips out at the sight of a needle, he's probably having a panic attack."

The nurses all breathe out. "Sorry, sir," one finally says. "He's not supposed to be receiving visitors, but we will make an exception. Come this way."

* * *

 

Rocket was clinging onto an IV drip and snarling, just like the nurses said. His ears were pulled back, his tail erect. He looked like he would bite the next person he saw, which was hilarious, because he was still in hospital pajamas, the kind meant for children. It was frightening and adorable at the same time.

"Rocket, hey, chill," Peter said, arms out and open. "You're all good now." Thankfully, Rocket began to calm down. His ears perked up, his tail dropped and swished lightly, and he slowly loosened his grip on the medical equipment. Rocket reached a paw out, and Peter moved closer. "C'mon, Ranger Rick, you're among friends."

Rocket jumped down, but did not get up on his hind legs. He scurried on all fours to Quill.

And started to sniff.

"Hey, what's wrong? Some of you not back online yet?" Peter had seen it twice, once after an EMP blast and another time after a freak solar flare, where all his cybernetics were incapacitated without actually knocking Rocket out, but he always bounced back quickly enough. Rocket leaned back and got on his hind legs, a good sign. But then, he gripped Peter's pant leg and scurried up his side. Like an animal.

Once he was up on Quill's shoulder, the sniffing resumed; Rocket's nose inside of Peter's ear. Peter was hoping, no, praying, that Rocket did this to whisper him a 'Play along, dumbass,' but all he got was a wet ear and a confused but happy raccoon trying to stamp down a nest in his hair. Heck, Rocket was purring louder than an engine. Quill had caught this once after Groot brushed him, and the death glare that followed clearly meant he'd accidentally walked in on something private.

"The hey?" Quill said, trying his best not to agitate his squirming hat. He looked to Groot for some help. Groot's missing arm was all but regrown at this point, the fingers still just a tad too small and uneven, but good enough to use. He pulled out the data pad and clicked away, holding it out to the nurses.

'GET ME THE TEAM THAT WORKED ON HIM. NOW.'

Even though Groot had typed in all caps before, the amount of fuming anger that came off the line of text was palpable, if not the unusually sour look on his face. Groot looked like he was going to murder someone. Even when Groot was actually murdering someone, he never looked like it.

Peter realized this wasn't an act. Somebody screwed up and there was going to be hell to pay.

* * *

 

Three doctors and two nurses ran in the room, almost as if their pants were on fire. Word got around quickly that not only was this a major screw up, this was a major screw up on one of the people that had saved their home planet from annihilation.

Rocket had gotten bored of playing with Peter's hair and was now curled up in Peter's arms like a cat, nudging Peter's left hand with his face, chittering in high pitched squeaks. Peter knew trying to pet Rocket under normal circumstances was an opportunity to lose a finger, but Groot had shown them that when Rocket's cybernetics were offline and he was like a person with temporary amnesia or a concussion, Rocket calmed down when he was touched. Peter absentmindedly scratched Rocket behind his left ear, and Rocket's breathing and pulse slowed. The purring resumed.

Groot, however, was the exact opposite of calm.

'HOW DID YOU OPERATE ON HIM?'

One of the doctors stepped forward, uneasily and described the process.

'YOU CUT THE BRAIDED WIRE NEAR HIS PELVIS?!'

"I… I followed it up," spoke one of the doctors. It was a redundancy, and we needed to get to his…" he trailed off as he saw Groot's response.

'IT WAS DESIGNED TO LOOK REDUNDANT. YOU JUST LOBOTOMIZED HIM, YOU ! #$.'

Other than the sounds of purring, the room was quiet. One of the nurses looked at her feet, face an even flusher pink than normal.

'AS HIS LEGAL NEXT-OF-KIN I WANT THE TAPES OF THE OPERATION,' Groot ticked out. 'I'M TAKING HIM TO SOMEONE WHO WON'T SEVER HIS MEMORY BANKS.'

"Do you have documentation?" One of them finally asked.

Groot's mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything, silently fuming. A few more ticks on the pad and he brought up digital paperwork. 'DO YOU NEED THIS IN TRIPLICATE, TOO?'

"No, no sir. We'll have everything for you right away."

* * *

 

Peter was fuming as much as Groot, but at least the problem with Rocket sounded fixable, so long as they found someone familiar with the unique cybernetic setup Rocket possessed. Until then, they probably needed a hutch or something on board. Rocket had been carefully swaddled in a hospital blanket in case he decided to thrash, and Peter carried the bundle with Rocket's nose peeking out, occasionally twitching in his sleep, while Groot carried Peter's belongings and the film bank.

"Gamora, punch us off this dump," Quill said, dejected, the moment the hatch closed behind them. "We need to find a good roboticist, like, ten hours ago."

Gamora looked between the three of them. "Don't worry, you're not bugged with listening devices."

Rocket started squirming in the blanket. "Crap, what do I do if he needs to use the bathroom or something? Do we, I don't know, litterbox train him?"

"No," a gruff voice came from the bundle and Quill almost dropped Rocket. "You let me out of this freaking thing. Because, yeah, I gotta go like nobody's business!"

"You, you jerk!" Peter yelled. Gamora and Groot broke down in hysterical laughter, and Peter swore he heard a low rumble from the galley. "You KNEW," he added accusatorily. "YOU ALL KNEW."

"Well, no," Gamora said, in between wheezes. "I told Drax after you took Rocket off the ship."

"But why?"

"The tape, duh," Rocket yelled from down the hallway. "If there's anything incriminating, it's on there. I figured marks were planted with a tracking device, and we'll find that out soon enough. Groot's the bearer of my living will, so we just got us some grade-A evidence, legally. And I got a new hip. I've been walking with a killer limp since that fight on Perca, so two birds, one stone." Rocket poked his head out of the main bathroom. "Oi, hairless, get me some clothes, I'm not gonna wear kiddie pajamas any longer than I have to."

Quill looked bug eyed at Groot, who just smiled and shrugged, and Rocket's still twitching nose peeking out of the door.

"Dammit, no, get your own damn adult onesie. I will be in my room fuming at the fact that all of you are better actors than me." Peter stated stomping down the hall, passing the bathroom on the way.

"Y'know, when I do go blue-screen I can still remember it after. I did wake up without everything online," Rocket said, as Peter walked by the door. "I wasn't me until you came in the room, so thanks. You do know I trust you, right? Sorry I didn't tell you my whole plan. But, hey, you did pretty good."

"Nobody messes with my friends, Rocket."

"But I still get to mess with ya," Rocket said.

"I am going to pay you back," Peter said, as he kept walking to the stern.

"Lookin' forward to it, hairless."


	6. Aqua Vitae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shower was their space, for different reasons.

**_Sorry about the delay, everyone! I just moved, and internet got hooked up this morning, so there will be FOUR new shorts (well three shorts and a 'long') in quick succession! I also received a request for the prompt "Rocket in a box" from Prince-in-Disguise, so that will be one of the four as well._ **

**_Writer's block also didn't help, but a good idea came to me yesterday that focuses on Gamora and Rocket, which is one of the four stories, as well as a follow-up to 'This is Why I Hate the Vet'_ **

[6] Aqua Vitae

Peter Quill loved a good hot shower. After Rocket rerouted the pipe system to run alongside the engine, they had a consistent heatsink on board for the thrusters and all the hot water they could ever hope to use. He'd blast it and stand under it as long as he could handle, long after the dirt, blood, and sweat had gone down the septic tank for cleaning, only to be used by someone else on the ship after disinfection.

He came out red every time, another stupid grin plastered on his face. It was good to be alive.

* * *

Groot liked a lukewarm shower. Not to clean himself- it wasn't as if he sweat or bled out. He would stand under the shower on the lowest setting, a light rain, drinking his fill through his roots, and a deep ethereal hum would reverberate through the entirety of the vessel.

"Rootsong," Rocket once provided, with no other explanation.

Peter always turned off his tape deck whenever he saw Groot head towards the shower after that.

* * *

Gamora didn't know what to do with the shower system, she'd always used a damp cloth and disinfectant. After her first real shower on the ship, sopping wet and warm, she discovered her hair to be a tangled mess that she could not undo. She dressed, considering if she should just chop it off. Her brush only made the tangles worse. She snapped it in half, almost as if in protest, storming out of the shower facility, right into Peter. He took one quick look at the clumpy mess of hair and dragged her back into the shower room, rummaging in a cabinet for a gold colored bottle.

"Try this," he offered, and then left the small room. Gamora squirted a little into her palm, and began working the conditioner into her hair. It smelled a bit musky and deep.

Later that evening, her hair the softest it had been in a long time, she clicked past the engine room in a new pair of boots she'd picked up landside. Rocket lifted his face up from some contraption, sniffing the air.

"Pete, you wearing high heels or summat?"

* * *

Drax took the shortest, coldest shower of everyone. He had no hair to detangle or wash, and no need to drink the water, so everyone else assumed he was just being efficient.

He didn't want to tell the others the scars would burn under the heat.

He didn't want to tell the others it was raining hard the day Ronan and his men took his family.

* * *

Rocket did not shower, but he also didn't sweat. Everyone knew Rocket groomed himself, and eventually he stopped hiding away to do it.

But the first time something particularly nasty and sticky got caught in his fur, he looked to the three team members who weren't currently smaller than him. "Need a hand," he mumbled. "Groot's too small."

Drax, who was putting away the last of the dishes since he had not gone on the mission, looked downwards at the gunk-covered Rocket. "It would be an honor, small one."

Half an hour later, Gamora went down to the cargo bay to grab a replacement bulb for Groot's heat lamp. She certainly did not see Rocket, sopping wet with his nose peeking out of a plastic bucket, whiskers twitching, as Drax deftly combed green goo out of the spaces between his implants on his back. She saw nothing at all.

 


	7. Here's Lookin' at You, Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An EMP bomb on a mission knocks out Rocket and Gamora's cybernetics. When they restart, however, something didn't turn back on properly in either of them...

[7] Here's Lookin' at You, Kid

None of the Guardians were expecting a flash bomb to go off, but, hey, worse things could happen on a mission. Drax blinked his eyes a few times and the scrawny-but-fast thugs they'd been sent to take out had long fled.

He watched as Peter rubbed his eyes. No harm done. Or so he thought.

"Groooooot!" Groot yelled, pointing at the floor in front of him. Both Rocket and Gamora lay comatose. Rocket didn't have far to fall, so he was fine, but Gamora probably broke her nose. With the nanobots in her system temporarily disabled, she'd need a splint and cotton to stop the bloodflow.

"EMP," Peter cursed under his breath. "Groot, you know what to do. Drax, can you carry Gamora?" Peter hastily pulled emergency supplies from his knapsack and bandaged Gamora's face, while Groot picked up the small furball, holding him in a lock. Rocket's body typically woke up before his cybernetics did, and that meant a confused woodland creature who would want to get the heck out of wherever he was, biting and clawing if necessary, before his smarts decided to override his instincts.

The slimeballs, Peter thought, could always be caught another day. Right now, they needed to get their two cyborgs out of harm's way.

* * *

Rocket always woke up way too fast from an EMP (always being twice by Peter's count and sixteen by Groot's), they hadn't even made it back to the ship before they heard the high pitched screeches from Rocket's lips. Groot held on tighter as not-quite-yet-Rocket continued to whine and scramble, lazily scratching behind Rocket's ear as Rocket's instincts started to realize he was curled up in a tree. A sentient tree, sure, but Rocket's animal brain didn't distinguish. His breathing calmed, and he curled himself in a ball, going to sleep in Groot's limbs. Groot looked down at his small friend, safe in the knowledge that when he'd reawaken, he'd be a person again. Not that Groot particularly cared either way, a friend was a friend.

Peter unlocked the cargo door of the Milano, closer to the bunks than the main bay entrance, and walked with Drax and the knocked-out Gamora back to her cabin. "Hey, Groot, buddy, let me know when Rocket's back online, okay?" he said, quietly, as he disappeared down the hallway with Drax.

"Grooo…" Groot cooed, half at Peter and half at the sleeping ball of fur in his hands.

Groot sat down in a quiet corner of the cargo bay, continuing to stroke Rocket's head gently, checking for bruising and feeling Rocket purr through his very limbs.

"That's nice…" Rocket said lazily, only half awake. Good. He'd come back. "Peter, I guess they had EMP's or flare weapons if we have returned to the ship. I can hear the engine and smell the oil… did they overload my sensory processors?

"I am Groot," Groot replied gently. Groot knew how well Rocket could smell, see and hear compared to the humanoids. If the bomb had messed around with his senses, Rocket was likely going to need Gamora to do a reset. The two of them knew each other's basic systems well enough to do some maintenance on each other.

Rocket opened an eye. "That… was intriguing," he said. "I cannot understand it, but maybe I should keep my hearing set as they have? I heard undertones, Groot, I think I can learn your…" Rocket trailed off, and shot up, tail swishing. "Oh," he said, as if coming to a realization, looking up at Groot. "This is… inconvenient."

"Groo?"

"This is Gamora, Groot, not Rocket. And I suppose Rocket's mind is inhabiting my body as well," 'Rocket' replied.

Groot looked petrified, picking up the now-fluffy Gamora and holding her tightly in an embrace. Gamora felt something at the back of her now-feral brain telling her she needed to get out, and, without meaning to, began to squirm and thrash, letting out a bestial shriek. Groot let go.

"If those primal flee urges are a thing Rocket needs to contend with daily, I can understand why he is so wary of touch," Gamora said, matter-of-factly, trying out her new snout and wiggling her ears. "The amount of trust he places in you despite that fight-or-flight instinct is impressive."

Groot beamed, and Gamora attempted to stand up, only to topple head-first on the cold metal floor. She tried again, to no avail, and settled on walking on all fours. "I do not know how he does it," she remarked. Despite still having Rocket's voice, it was easy to tell it was Gamora. Groot stood up, looming even higher than usual over 'Rocket' due to Gamora's gait, and walked down the hallway, beckoning her to follow.

Gamora laughed, and it escaped her as a high pitched chitter. "So his normal laugh IS fake. Well, then, let's see if Rocket is faring better in my body than I am in his."

* * *

Drax carefully deposited Gamora's warm-but-still-comatose body into her bunk, laying a light quilt over. "I will go and steep some tea and prepare some food. Both will likely need something to regain their strength after they awaken," he said. Implicitly, he was also giving Peter some quiet time alone with his girlfriend. Well-sort of girlfriend. The two of them really didn't have a label for their relationship, despite everyone else on the ship knowing they were an item.

Peter brushed back the hair from her brow, noticing the green roots showing under the black hair. Peter didn't know why she dyed it, and would love to see her real hair color, a dark foresty color, peeking through, on her for a change. But it was her body, not his, and if that's how she liked it, so be it. He could hear the plate in her cheekbone start to move and adjust; she was coming back online. He peeled the splint from her nose so the nanobots could fix it the way it was supposed to be, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Gamora awoke with a start. "What the frak, man?" her sultry voice exclaimed. With just the intonation and those four words, Peter guessed at exactly what had transpired.

"…Rocket?!"

"Yeah dumba…" Rocket replied. "Okay, w'happened to my voice?"

"Nothing happened to 'your' voice," Peter said, half amused and half disgusted that he'd kissed 'Rocket' on the cheek AND Gamora was still hot, even with Rocket as a temporary occupant. "I knew running around the universe long enough would get me involved in a body-swapping plot. It always happens- 2AM B-movies never lie. Thank whatever deities are watching that I didn't get switched with Groot."

"It's like I have cotton stuffed in my ears and nose," Rocket groaned, as he came to realize he was Gamora. "At least I still have decent eyesight."

"You DO have cotton stuck in your nose," Peter replied, now afraid of seeing Gamora-as-Rocket eye-to-eye when she and her probably fuzzy pelt eventually decided to face him. "Gamora broke her nose when she fell. Her nanos should have fixed it by now, so the gauze can come out, but I'm not tweezing it out for you."

Rocket lifted a free hand. "Goddam sausages," he mumbled, looking at the slender green fingers. "How am I supposed to get any work done with these?" He flexed his fingers, touching each to his thumb.

"I fix the ship just fine," Peter said, affronted. "And my hands are even bigger."

Rocket laughed, clapping his hand over his mouth before realizing he wasn't chittering, but laughing like a humanoid. "Wonder how Gamora's doin'. I'd bet money that she don't even know how to stand up."

As if on cue, a thunderous knock on the bulkhead door. "Groot, buddy, in here," Rocket called out.

Peter just pulled on the tufts of hair on his head. It would have been easier if he'd switched with someone. Anyone. He could be Drax. That would be okay.

Groot opened the door, and Rocket was right, Gamora was on all fours, nose twitching. "This is, for lack of better terminology, insane," Gamora said. "I can smell and hear everything on the ship. I can tell that Drax is in the galley, he is boiling water, and there are pastries in the heating unit. I can hear the undertones in Groot's speech! How do you make sense of all this?"

"The same way that you can walk around without needin' a tail for balance," Rocket said. "This is nuts," he added as he sat up in the bunk. "I'm as tall as Quill."

"Speaking of which, how do I stand up?" Gamora asked.

"Groot probably locked me in the down position so I didn't hurt myself," Rocket said, with Groot nodding. "Clench your back legs together and rock back until you're standin', then release. You'll feel your-my-whatever spine click into place. If you want to curl up, lock your knees together and you'll feel the mechanism come loose, then bend forward 'till you're on all fours and you feel another click. If you're good, you can do it in one motion to go from sittin' to standin'." Gamora shakily did as instructed, and wobbled unsteadily on what she saw as too-small feet. Peter looked at Gamora, struggling to stand, and a wave of emotion washed over him. She was adorable. And he was getting more and more uncomfortable as he watched the two of them be totally okay with this. If he woke as Rocket he'd probably think it was cool, he hadn't skittered through the ductwork of a spaceship since he was a little kid, and ladies in bars would probably lavish him with attention, but waking up as Gamora would be a nightmare on several levels.

After a few more tries of switching between stances (Gamora didn't even know that this part of Rocket was mechanical, he did it so fluidly), and a little bit of Rocket's flailing reminders to relax and let her tail take care of balance, she was pacing around the small room.

"Next, you're going to wanna learn to climb proper-like. Nothing is ever gonna be the right height," Rocket said, after he seemed satisfied, swinging his (her?) legs over the side of the bunk and attempting to stand himself. "Whoa, this is not easy."

"Take off my heels, Rocket. There are some flats in the closet." Rocket fumbled with the zippers on Gamora's boots, and scooted and reached out to her wardrobe.

"I can reach everything, this is a head trip," Rocket said, bewildered. He found a pair of shoes without heels and slid them on. "Hate shoes, but this is just a rental, right?" he asked aloud at nobody in particular as he pointed to himself.

"I think so, it should be easy enough to fix," Gamora said thoughtfully. "I keep nightly backups of my data banks, so I just need to reload from yesterday. I won't remember this but I'm sure Peter will hold it over my head." She grinned, bearing Rocket's canines. "Whatever those goons threw was probably a data scrambler; we haven't, as Peter so loudly proclaimed before I got in here, switched bodies because I have your instincts and I can't remember my childhood, just an adult reminder I planted in my virtual memory that I had a time before Thanos. Something tells me if you swim in my subconscious you'll resurface memories of mine from before I became Thanos's blade, and won't be able to remember who you were before your modifications as well." Gamora turned backwards and addressed Groot, still standing in the doorway. "Groot, hug him. Tightly."

Rocket braced himself to swallow his normal instinct to run as Groot wrapped his arms around him. But the irrational feeling of dread never hit. It was only the feeling of soft comfort, without any of the flight response buried underneath. It was… really nice actually. Warm. Rocket wriggled his arms free and hugged Groot back, to both their surprise. "You're… right," he finally admitted.

"So," Peter said mulling, "everything stored on Rocket's hard drives is being read by Gamora's machinery and vice versa? Do we do a data transfer and everyone's good again?"

Gamora shook her head. "A data transfer is a bad idea. We will both get everything mixed together, I will get all of what is in here, " she said pointing a clawed finger at herself, "including Rocket's instincts, and Rocket's going to get my suffering at the hands of Thanos before he installed the drive. No. We both just restore our backups and everything's fine. If I had one of those bombs they tossed we could be back to ourselves as fast as the original switch took place, but, without, it will take me about ten hours to do a full restore, we will both have to be unconscious. Anyway, Rocket's body is screaming of hunger, so let me eat something and then I'll set us both up for repairs."

"No wonder you are so calm about this," Peter replied, after a beat of silence.

"It's happened to me once before. But now I know who we are dealing with as adversaries, as they are likely the same organization," Gamora replied. "Last time it was myself and Nebula, though, so the difference was not so great," she said, spreading her furry arms wide.

"G'mora," Rocket finally squeaked out. "I… I don't have a backup. I thought my hard drive WAS my backup. For my brain." Gamora, Groot, and Peter looked on in horror.

"How long ago was it installed?" Gamora asked.

"I am Groot." Rocket's face went sour.

"I can't hear you anymore, big guy," Rocket said, solemnly. "But I'm guessing he told you about six or seven years ago. I'm about eight years old."

"It takes me about five minutes per day for a backup, and I'll set you up with one. Mathematically that's…"

"About eight to ten days straight," Rocket finished, mentally calculating at a blinding speed. "That's still pretty good for… how many petabytes of data?"

"Better than not being able to switch at all," Peter replied. "And the rest of us can go track those asshats down in the meantime for the quicker route. We can bring you food, Rocket, or does he have to be unconscious for the whole thing?"

"No, no, we'll both only need to be unconscious for the restore," Gamora said. "I have a wireless setup for backing up. Rocket just couldn't stray too far from the ship- or, if he does, it will just pause and resume when he returns within range." He can do whatever he wants while it copies," Gamora paused, holding up a finger, "Within reason."

"That's… not terrible," Rocket finally said. "I get to be you for a week and watch Peter squirm. You'd better not do anything to my fuzzy rear end, got it, Quill?"

"Noted," Peter said. The week wouldn't be so bad for Rocket or Gamora, it seemed, but it was not going to be fun for him.

* * *

DAY 0 (3.8% complete):

The rest of Day Zero (as the team now called it) was pretty low key. Groot helped Rocket walk through the hallways in his now too-tall legs, and Gamora scampered between walking on twos and fours just so she could practice the switch. Drax, once he was assured that their problem was reversible, laughed, clapping a hand on each of them, and reminded Gamora sternly that she was not to have any caffeine or chocolate.

Gamora set up the data backups for Rocket after they had eaten (Rocket noting he felt full after less than one pastry, and saw Gamora look uncomfortable asking for thirds. She'd have to get used to his appetite) and both went back to their respective bunks. Rocket realized he wouldn't fit in his bed and sleeping curled up in Groot's arms was unfair to both Gamora and his now less flexible humanoid back. He doubled back to Gamora's room and the two of them shared her bunk for the night.

* * *

DAY 1 (14.7% complete):

A soft knock awoke both of them the following morning. "Breakfast," Drax said from beyond the bulkhead.

"Rocket," Gamora said drowsily, "Take my vitamins and get dressed. Or, better yet, shower. You reek of sweat and dried blood."

"I have to shower?" Rocket replied. "Like every day?"

"Yes," Gamora replied. "And I will go in when you're finished."

"Don't," Rocket said, swinging his legs around to get up. He still had vertigo, being as tall as he was, and he laughed internally at the thought that by the time he got used to being Gamora he'd be back in his own form (which he surprisingly missed, at least for his hands and understanding Groot). He could do without the instinct-laden paranoia, but seven years of being sentient atop a wild carnivore gave him enough time to deal with his brain's quirks. Gamora, on the other hand, was going to have to get used to being an animal…

"Only get my implants wet if you absolutely have to, and grease 'em when done if you do. They'll corrode, and infect my skin. I don't wanna deal with cybernetics rash when I get my body back. Spare me the shower and just groom yourself."

Rocket was already wobbling out of the room when Gamora peeked her fuzzy head from out of the blankets. "How am I even supposed to do that?"

The same thought echoed in Rocket's head as he fully undressed himself the first time. Limbs everywhere, parts he didn't understand. He turned the shower head on to the temperature he liked on the rare occasion he did shower, and found it to be freezing as Gamora. Stupid hairless body.

The rest of the shower went without incident, he found the conditioner he used as himself still worked on Gamora's long hair. He wrapped in a towel and trudged back to Gamora's bunk, throwing her clothing in the chute along the way. He'd probably need instruction on how to wear some of Gamora's clothing, and it was her body anyway.

Gamora was propped up on the bed, still trying to figure out how to unhook Rocket's jumpsuit.

"I thought I had it bad, greenie," Rocket said as he shut the door behind him. I know it's a G suit and it ain't supposed to come off easy, but seriously?"

"Help would be more useful to me than snark, Rocket."

"Lick your hand."

"What?"

"I have tiny sensory organs in my fingertips, like my whiskers. They work better if they're wet. Then run your hand along the side of the buckles. You'll feel a notch. Twist your nail in it like a screwdriver and it will pop apart."

Gamora complied and the suit split apart along a tightly hidden seam. She rolled it off. "Now what?"

"You said you have my instincts. Let 'em guide you."

That was reassuring, Gamora thought, but somehow she realized the tip of her tail was between her teeth and she was methodically combing through the fur. She let her mind wander, almost to the point of meditation, as her body went through the motions. Rocket, meanwhile, attempted to dress himself, which mostly meant dragging on clothes while he leaned against something solid for extra support.

"Not terrible," Gamora remarked when he finished. "Except your hair."

"I'll say the same, greenie. You still got bedhead. Let me get you my brush and some clothes."

Rocket trudged out of Gamora's room, straight into Peter, who let out a bit of a yelp. Peter looked Rocket over once, cried out "Still unfair, man," and danced down towards the galley.

Rocket returned with the brush and loose clothing, a tank top and drawstring shorts.

"I didn't even know you owned anything other than jumpsuits," Gamora ribbed.

"Wear when I sleep," Rocket replied halfheartedly, as he sat down on the bunk. It lowered some from his weight. Things never did that. "Pro'lly easier for you."

Gamora pulled on the shirt and pants, and Rocket took her muzzle in his hand, combing out the tangles on her face with a wire pet brush. Not that he would admit Groot bought it from a pet store, but it worked much better than stuff intended for hair like Gamora's. She flinched.

"Half my brain is telling me this is nice, the other half wants to run," she admitted.

"That's cause someone way bigger than you is brushin'. You're gonna have to tolerate it, you can't clean your own face with your teeth."

"Can I have someone else do this? I'm still uncomfortable seeing my own face when I look up," she admitted, softly.

"Jus… just put some pants on first, yeah," Rocket held out the brush. "If you and Pete want some alone time that's fine. Just no funny stuff."

"I think he's far too… uncomfortable… for that to come up."

"If we couldn't change back… you think he won't love you?" Rocket asked as he stood up, searching for Gamora's own brush.

"No, that's not the problem. I'm quite good at reading others. He's worried about hurting or insulting you. And we will be fine. I've had this happen before, remember?"

"Weirder things have happened to me, Gamora. I mean, I became a friggin' person! I'm not worried about Peter, I'm worried about hurtin' or insultin' Groot. If he wants to pick you up, and you're okay with it, can you let him? He's lost the only person on the ship he can talk to."

"If he wants to pick YOU up," Gamora replied, as she trotted out of the room towards the galley, pointing at Rocket with his brush," he can. He's all of our comrades-in-arms, but he's your friend first and foremost."

"Not right now he ain't, Rocket whispered under his breath when Gamora had gone far enough away that he knew she wouldn't hear.

* * *

DAY 2 (25.4% complete):

Rocket tried coffee for the first time. He'd already realized that things tasted different as Gamora, sweets were less sweet and bitter was much stronger. And boy, was the dark liquid bitter. He spit it out in the sink and was kind of grateful caffeine normally made him sick.

Chocolate, on the other hand, was a welcome treat, something he'd tried once and regretted later in his own body years ago. Gamora huffed as he greedily shoved a piece in his mouth without consequence.

"Savor it, little man," Peter joked.

He did.

* * *

DAY 3 (36.3% complete):

Gamora had been right about Groot- Groot didn't care that Rocket wasn't small or soft, or that he couldn't understand him. He was still cooing over Rocket as he'd done before, but now was brushing out his long hair and braiding flowers into it.

Peter, too, when he'd been given the okay to be with Gamora, had lightened up considerably. Gamora was still flinching under touch, but now it was mostly limited to her tail twitching wildly. She could hide in places no-one else on the ship could reach if she didn't want the attention, so Peter recognized that she was doing her best to keep down Rocket's instincts to keep Peter company.

Peter couldn't stop petting her. It was a massive stress relief. Since she couldn't work on the mechanics of the ship like Rocket, and couldn't really fight or practice, any moment not spent practicing climbing and skittering around the vessel or doing the few chores Rocket needed her to do, was spent in Peter's lap as he combed through her fur.

Gamora was half asleep on Peter that night, when Rocket came up to the pair with a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He was going to use this opportunity of consequence free eating (especially considering he was only eating one or two meals a day instead of four on Gamora's nonexistent appetite) as much as he could without completely disrupting Gamora's diet.

Peter was gently rubbing circles on Gamora's forehead, and Rocket bent over (bent! over!) to be at her eye level. "Better with seeing me yet?" he asked.

"The initial shock's worn off," she replied lazily as she swished her tail, smacking Peter in the face. She winked at Rocket; it had been on purpose.

Rocket reached out his hand. "Can I? I always wanted to know why everyone feels like they need to pet me."

"Sure," she said, as she hopped off Peter's lap and onto Rocket's. Peter looked sourly at the pair on the floor next to his seat.

"I'll give her back, just gimmie a minute," Rocket protested. Gamora stuck out her tiny pink tongue.

Rocket started scratching in the spots he knew he liked Groot touching, behind his (temporarily her) left ear, and gently under his chin. He felt a low rumble, and realized Gamora was purring, and not trying to hide it at all. He felt the warm bundle in his arms, leaning into him, the rumble of contentment, and the soft fur between his hairless fingers. Rocket was strangely at ease.

Great, he thought, now I'm going to have to play nice once in a while and be everyone else's' stress ball. As long as they stayed on the ship, he had a reputation out there.

* * *

DAY 4 (58.1% complete):

Drax, Peter and Gamora had taken to talks with Nova on leads of where their marks had gone, Gamora staying as silent as possible or answering in curt, slurred sentences in her best approximation of Rocket so that Nova didn't know something was wrong. Rocket's backup would be more than half done by day's end, but it was the principle of the matter and Gamora wanted to put her fangs through one of their legs while she still had them, just to try. She was practically putting her fangs through everything else on the ship.

Rocket didn't realize just how much he ate until he wasn't eating so much anymore.

* * *

DAY 5 (69.0% complete):

Every morning, the two of them would wake and help each other, Gamora was now okay with Rocket in her own body combing out her fur, and Gamora would braid back Rocket's hair to keep it from whipping him in the face. This morning, she looked sourly at it while holding strands in her paws.

"I need to dye my hair."

I'll say, you let it go pretty far. At this point, why not wait and just make it pink again yourself?"

"No, those are frosted tips."

"You lost me."

"The ends are dyed a different color on purpose," she huffed. She huffed a lot more in Rocket's body than in her own, as if to assert herself despite her small size. "I'm talking about the roots. My green is showing through."

"So?"

"Thanos had me dye my hair so I didn't look like…" She froze. "Forget it," she said, baring Rocket's wicked canines. "I'm letting it grow out."

She grabbed a knife from her weapons storage, holding it in both hands like a sword. "Don't move," she chided to Rocket, as she cleanly sliced off the pink portion. "When my roots get long enough, the black is going as well."

* * *

DAY 6 (79.9% complete):

Gamora had freaking flashcards, Rocket discovered.

As Gamora had demanded Rocket at least attempt to keep some form of exercise routine while he occupied her space, Rocket had demanded she keep up some of his duties as well, including cleaning the ductwork and other places the rest of the team could not reach, especially the sensitive equipment that could be affected by dust or loose wire.

Gamora had also taken duties to mean 'talking to Groot'. She was trying to learn, and from the looks of the two of them, actually managing.

He caught her that night at the console screen, trying to figure out how to overclock her hearing implants to hear in Rocket's range when she was back in her own body. He knew she could smell him behind her, but did not acknowledge him. He scribbled a few notes, and returned to Gamora's bed.

When he had his own hands back, and a few spare parts, he could make the modifications. Groot wouldn't need to be quite so alone anymore.

* * *

DAY 7 (90.8% complete):

The team had actually landed on a planet today, still without leads, but in need of fuel and supplies. Gamora clamored up on Groot's back, not because she didn't want to be with Peter, but because her nails were sharp and would probably ruin Peter's favorite jacket.

"Do you want to come, Rocket?" Peter asked. "If it's only an hour or two you should still be done by midnight tomorrow."

"I could use a drink."

"I do not become inebriated," Gamora replied. "Too much of a weakness."

"Where's the fun in that?" Rocket mocked. "Eh, whatever. I have some shopping I need to do, anyway. I think I can manage alone."

"No, you should stay with me," Peter replied. "Or Drax, your choice."

"Rocket, I am not going to mince words. You are beautiful, and some people will harass and proposition you for it. Since you do not know how to respond, stay with someone." Gamora said, arms crossed and gripping Groot's shoulder with her hind legs.

"I'll just kick their heads in."

"That's the problem. They're just people run by their hormones, not bounties. I'm not saying this because you're a woman and unable to protect yourself, I am saying this because I don't want you arrested."

Rocket snorted, but complied. He picked Drax, though. Peter would ask too many questions about the cybernetic parts he was buying.

* * *

DAY 8 (100% complete):

It was close to midnight between Day 8 and Day 9 when the alarm Gamora had set went off.

It was done.

Gamora and Rocket rushed to the console, both at ease in their respective strides. "Two hours to clean the cache, and then it's good night for you both," Peter said, as he read the output, panting behind them, unable to keep up.

"I'll back up my past week, then," Gamora said. "It should only be an hour, tops, including the cache."

"Groot, buddy, in twelve hours you'd better tell me everything that's on your mind," Rocket chided.

"I am Groot," Groot said, nodding.

"He says of course," Gamora translated excitedly.

"It will be good to see everyone back as they should be," Drax replied. "But Rocket, would you like some more chocolate before you cannot indulge?"

"I'll pass," Rocket replied. "I'm more excited to get my appetite back."

"Thank Odin-on-high you both don't eat like that," Peter said, shaking his head.

The five of them curled up in the cockpit, watching whatever they could catch from the satellites on the holoscreen, Rocket sitting on Groot's lap, and Peter making his final use of scratching Gamora behind the ears. Drax made tea and prepared a sleeping medication and anesthetic so that Rocket wouldn't thrash or flee in the ten hours he had no higher mind, spooning several heaping mouthfuls to Gamora. In fifteen minutes, the small fuzzy body lay limp in Peter's arms.

"He's all yours, Groot," Peter said quietly. He, Rocket noted, recognizing that that would be him in just a few short hours. Groot took Rocket's body and held both Rocket-body and Rocket-mind tightly to his chest.

"Give me some too," Rocket said. "I don't wanna be awake when my mind is scrubbed clean. In as greenie and out as a furball."

"I'll prepare a stronger dosage," Drax stated. "Just give me a few minutes."

Groot, Rocket, and Peter sat in silence, while Drax went downstairs to furnish more supplies.

"You did good, Pete," Rocket finally said.

"I didn't do anything," he protested.

"Gamora didn't even want to look at me at first. Seeing her face back at her scared her. I guess the last time that happened, it was because she was Nebula."

Silence.

"Thanks, Rocket. For taking good care of her."

"You'd better take good care of Gamora or I'll bite off your babymaker," Rocket growled, the best he could in Gamora's timbre.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"You're not fantasizing about that, are you?"

"I'll leave that up to your imagination, Ranger Rick," he said, as a wicked grin spread across his face.

"That is the last thing I want to hear before being drugged up and knocked out, Quill."

"You did good, Rocket. Better than I would have."

Drax returned with a small bottle. "Drink it all," he chided. "It will be bitter."

Rocket held his nose and swallowed in a gulp, leaning against Groot for when he eventually passed out. He reached out a hand to pet his own comatose form, soft and innocent in Groot's arms.

"I'll see you in the mirror, Captain Awesome," Rocket said, as blackness began to take over. He felt a warm pair of hands grab him by the midsection as he fell to the floor, and awoke with a start curled in Groot's arms, covered in wire.

"I am Groot?" Groot asked hesitantly.

"Hearin' you loud and clear," Rocket replied. When he let out a hearty chitter of a laugh, he didn't hold it back. He felt his instinct jerkbrain surface, but his hearing and scent as well. He'd live. He let Groot squeeze him tighter as he deftly unhooked himself, eventually standing up on tiny hind legs he knew how to use when Groot let go.

Gamora was already up, practicing handstands and rolls. The two locked eyes. They were both home.

As if on cue, Drax burst into the room. "They found the syndicate on Gerba III. Are we ready?"

"You mean 'you'," Rocket corrected. "I think Gamora and I are sittin' this one out. We can always swap back, but I really don't want to lose another day being comatose."

"Point well taken, small one."

And if, when Peter, Drax, and Groot returned with five men and two women in handcuffs to throw in their makeshift brig, they found Gamora brushing a sleeping Rocket in her lap, they certainly made no mention of it to their two resident cyborgs.

 


	8. Fix-it Felix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four things Rocket fixes for his team, and one thing they fix for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had three stories halfway done each, but none were coming out right… so I wrote this piece instead.
> 
> Naturally, even with the unfinished stories (that put my word count in the 20K range), I'm not hitting 50K in 5 days. I'll still update this until I hit 50K+ though, ending with the titular story "Nova We Have a Problem". I also really want to get back to my equally-as-long but way more involved puzzle fic The Hunt, which slipped from me more to do with coding the second puzzle (SO MANY WEBPAGES THAT PEOPLE WILL NEVER SEE UNLESS THEY PICK HILARIOUS WRONG ANSWERS) but yeah..
> 
> A 4+1 fic for Rocket, because, um, Rocket.

[8] Fix-it-Felix

Or Four Times Rocket Fixed Things for the Guardians, and One Time They Fixed Him

-Groot-

Rocket did mechanics. Rocket did Arduino boards, soldering, and whatever the heck you call it when you use pliers and clamps to bend copper and steel to your will. He didn't have the capacity to make his own silicon wafers, but Nova was happy to provide him whatever he asked. To a point.

What he wanted was Groot.

He knew how well Groot could regrow, but farming was never his forte. Other than Groot himself, Rocket didn't give two shits (or even one or half-a-shit) about nature. So, when Drax, after calming Rocket down from his first, open, honest bout of pure despair, started pawing through Groot's scattered branches- his corpse- Rocket probably would have clawed Drax to bits, or shot him, or both, if the giant hadn't just both comforted Rocket moments before AND had been the only one (as Rocket vaguely recalled) with a botanical background. That, and Drax looked like he was hunting through with purpose and care.

When Drax picked up a piece of wood (hardly more than a splinter, really) separate from the others, and brought it back around to Rocket, a smile on his face, the despair started to melt.

That knowing look in Drax's eyes meant only one thing. Groot could regrow.

And that brought Rocket back around to his current situation. Groot needed soil, water, and sunlight for photosynthesis. Soil (as well as fertilizer and plant food) Nova had provided in bags. Water was easy enough, they already had the means to store it onboard (well, on any board, once they got themselves a new ship).

But sunlight? In space? That was a bit harder. Groot was on the windowsill of their too-plush suite in a non-destroyed resort hotel on the bay. Nice view of the beach, breeze whipping through Rocket's fur when he opened a window… the sort of thing Groot would love once he'd gotten bigger.

And though the planting and care of Groot in such a state was about 90% Drax, Rocket would kill himself if he didn't contribute. He turned back to the wires in his hands, and contemplated the gutted sun lamp in front of him. He'd bought (or rather, he'd tried to buy but the horticulture shop wouldn't have any of it) the best sun lamp on Xandar, but there were still issues. For one, most ships ran on a standard international current voltage system, while Xandar had their own standard. For most electronics, a wall adapter was an easy fix, but not for anything that was intended to generate heat. And sun lamps didn't really come in the space station variety unless you got industrial grade. For another, he'd need one that would slowly provide light over a wider range over time as Groot grew, without infuriating the rest of the team he'd already decided he'd stay with. He didn't know if they'd collectively have the luxury to afford a ship with separate sleeping quarters, especially without four /billion/ units out of their grasp.

At least Nova hadn't sent them all straight to prison.

Rocket ran his claws through his fur. This was going to be a harder fix than he expected.

-Peter-

Rocket always thought if Peter came to him with a personal item to be fixed, it would be his damn cassette player. He never thought it would be the cassette inside. Or even that those things were removable. He just thought it was a part of the device.

"Hey, buddy," Peter said, ducking into the sloped corner under the galley stairs that Rocket made his workshop, just enough room for a Rocket sized desk, chair, set of tools, and cabinet… and a stand for Groot's pot with a strangely rigged sun lamp. The former had all been installed by the Nova Corps when they asked the Guardians what they wanted most on a ship (not knowing that they were rebuilding Peter's craft in secret as a thank-you). The latter Rocket had completed just mere hours before the ship's unveiling, only to discover that Nova had already built Groot-slash-everyone-else a full sunroom as a cabin. So it was put in the Rocket-sized workshop instead.

Groot wasn't quite talking yet, but he chirped at Rocket, and stuck a green tendril in his fur. Rocket shot upright and swiveled around. He must have passed out at the desk.

"Mph…" he mumbled, irritably.

"When was the last time you had something to eat?" Peter asked.

"The idiot… who should be growing to make himself bigger… grew me some fruit instead," he said, pointing wearily at an oddly shaped pit. He didn't want to tell Peter that while Nova had thought to make his room and workshop with furniture the appropriate sizes for him, the galley setup made it impossible for him to get any food. And Groot couldn't do anything to help, either.

"When…?" Peter asked expectantly, as he pointed to the twenty-eight hour standard clock on a shelf.

"Fo-fourteen hours ago…?" Rocket finally replied.

"My request," Peter said, holding up the guts of his music player (until Rocket realized it was too clean… why didn't he notice that pieces of it separated?), "can wait. I don't want you touching this if you're going to fall asleep on it."

Rocket looked indignantly at Peter, but complied, rolling over on all fours and stretching out in the space, before realizing Peter was still there, and quickly scrambled up on hind legs. "Didn't see nuthin'," he shot at Peter.

"Hey, we're all different species with different habits, bud," Peter replied helpfully, as he walked up the stairs to the galley directly overhead.

Rocket contemplated this for a second as Groot nodded to him. Rocket plodded up the steps behind.

"Some extra stepladders would be nice," Rocket finally said out loud, as he noticed Quill pulling everything he could find from the pantry that didn't need cooking. "And a hammock strung up in my room. I'm not used to sleeping on a mattress." Rocket was used to sleeping on Groot. Or the floor of a prison cell. Sometimes both at once.

"I'll have Drax string that up for you, and we can get some platforms," Quill said, as he looked down. This had been their first full day on the newly constructed Milano as a team, and Peter didn't want to put who had now become his best friend out to dry, especially in his own shared home. Peter didn't even know what Rocket actually could even eat… the alcohol he'd once seen Rocket drink should have killed him, but it didn't.

"Uh… so fruit, huh? What else do you like?"

"I don't know. Iron stomach. Protein bars and ration blocks were what I ate most of the time, plus whatever Groot grew for me. Fruit, flowers. Oh, yeah… if he gives you a flower, it's usually an edible one. He thinks you look hungry. He'll grow fruit rarely, takes more work because he has to self-pollinate, and uh… plant biology. I don't think you want to know what it is you're eating, but it don't hurt him none to do it." Suddenly, Groot's gift of a white flower to the little girl on Knowhere made a lot more sense. "But… uh? What did Nova leave us?"

"Protein bars, dried fruit, shelf-stable milk… frozen vegetables, tubers, fish and meat, and… hey…" Peter pulled out a small can, with a note taped to the side. "This one's for you."

"Vitamin deficiencies noted during checkup," Rocket read aloud, in rusty Xandarian. "Eat more nuts and seeds, vegetation, fish. Less sugar, less alcohol." He scoffed at the last comment, but popped open the can, and found it to be some kind of weird trail mix of seeds, nuts, dried fruit, and flaky what-Peter-only-guessed-was-some-form-of-fish jerky.

They'd given him animal kibble.

Peter noted the look of disgust on his face and bent to be at Rocket's eye level. He saw the anger in his eyes of being given something that he felt might be pet food, even though Peter thought it would be something he'd eat on a lazy morning watching the holoscreen and didn't look remotely like anything he'd seen in the dog-and-cat aisle of the grocery store as a kid back home. And then he noticed Rocket's thumb obscuring a small bit of text that he could make out around the digit. Saved.

"Read the whole thing, asshole," Peter grunted, as he tried to push Rocket's hand aside.

"For Rocket AND PETER QUILL." Rocket finished. "Seems like I'm not the only one who don't eat proper-like." With the reassurance that it wasn't pet chow, Rocket dug out a handful and popped some in.

"Better than protein bars or rations?" Peter asked tentatively.

Rocket held out the canister. "Take your medicine before I eat all of it," Rocket replied.

"Thanks," Peter replied, as he dug in, the two of them on the floor of the galley while Peter contemplated ways of getting his team eating together (and, by extension, finding a way to make a seat suitable for Rocket at the table looming over their heads).

"What's your background in magnetic tape?" Quill asked, after a few more handfuls and a swig of milk.

"Like the strips on some reader-cards?" Rocket asked, ears perking up. "I love stripping them and recoding them."

"Not stripping this time. Preserving," Peter said, a bit of a broken squeak coming through in his voice. "Yondu did something to the first tape I had so it didn't wear out. The one my mom left that I never used… I'm worried it might be damaged already."

"Gimmine them both and I'll whip something up for ya. But chemical bonding was always Groot's thing on our team. I just built the weapons, he made the black powder. If you don't mind his tendrils on 'em too, I can have it archive-ready in six hours or less."

"Just remember to take food breaks, bud," Peter chided, sighing with relief.

-Drax-

Rocket almost regretted galvanizing Peter's tape, because it was now blaring out through the sound system throughout the entire ship. And Peter was directly above Rocket's workshop, not only pounding away on something but singing. At least he wasn't off-key.

Rocket smelled Drax coming down from the galley and didn't even try to turn around, after all, everyone had to pass by the stairwell, and the workshop, by extension, to go down to the bunks. It's when Drax's smell did not waft away that Rocket realized he wasn't going to his cabin, but came to see him.

"DO YOU HAVE A MOMENT, SMALL ONE?" Drax shouted over the din. "CAN YOU FOLLOW ME TO YOUR QUARTERS?"

"ANYTHING TO GET AWAY FROM WHATEVER THAT EXCUSE FOR KARAOKE MIGHT BE," Rocket yelled back louder, more for Peter's sake than Drax's. He grabbed Groot out from under the heat lamp and followed Drax back to his cabin.

Rocket's cabin was the same size as everyone else's- save Groot's, as it also doubled as a tiny sunroom and park for the whole team, waves of blue Xandarian grass and some vine plants to boot- but when Rocket actually entered his cabin for the first time since they boarded the vessel, it looked... heck, who was he kidding? It looked awesome.

The Rocket-sized furniture was still there, but it was all low to the ground, leaving about seven feet of empty vertical space. Or, rather, had once left vertical space. The bunk had been dismantled, it's wood and metal repurposed into climbing structures carefully affixed into a jungle gym/rock climbing wall hybrid structure all the way up the walls, pieces jutting out in crisscrosses with a hammock hung between one, a plastic canister big enough for napping with blankets inside firmly hung from another beam to sway gently. Rocket would need to climb and jump to get around to the nooks and crannies high up, but there was still enough space for Groot and one other to stand at the doorway without blocking the actual exit. Thick netting had been stretched over the cabinets and desk below, to catch Rocket if he did fall.

"Gamora suggested it. She has seen how you fight by climbing, taking others by surprise. Groot has a sunroom, and Peter, Gamora, and I have an open space to spar, and we all have the holoroom for practicing firearms. But there was no space for you to practice your unique combat abilities, and we decided that dismantling one of our two onboard latrines was not the most prudent option."

Rocket still stood there, snout agape.

"Is there a problem, small one?" Drax asked, genuine worry creasing his face.

"N-no. This is just, people don't do this for me," Rocket replied. "People who aren't Groot, I mean."

He put Groot's pot down in a small holder affixed to a chest-of drawers under the netting, then tested out the integrity of the structure, running along a crossbeam and jumping up into the plastic jug nest and it swung pleasantly like Groot's swaying branches as he jumped inside. From his hole out, he realized it was the rough height of Gamora and Peter, because it came to Drax's shoulders. Then the hammock… was it to Groot's height when grown? There was also another crossbeam with a flat space with his mattress a little further up, and he jumped to it… Drax's height. He had a spot to be able to talk to each of his teammates in his own space, at their eye level.

"You want something in exchange, don't'cha?"

"No, but… actually, yes. However, this is yours even if you cannot assist. I am not sure of your ability to repair household objects."

"What is it?"

"An electric razor."

"You don't have haiiii…" Rocket trailed off, noticing the stubble on top his head where most humy species grew hair. Drax was not bald. He shaved. "You cut your hair off."

"To honor the deceased, yes. Widows in my culture remove their hair with the passing of their spouse, and then scar a tattoo of their passing," he said, pointing to the intricate red lines around his eyes. That must have hurt like hell.

"Shouldn't be an issue. I have to shave too, and mine… you can imagine how often mine break on me," Rocket replied gesturing to his full body of fur. "Hot climates, you know? I don't cut it all off like you do, but it gets too warm bein' in your own fur coat." He didn't say where he actually shaved, around his implants. Mostly because it was Groot that did it for him, in a spot Rocket could not reach.

"Thank you, small one, I will return with it shortly."

"Could you wait until Star-Dork stops wailing love songs? I don't want to go back there just yet with all that racket."

Drax noticed that Rocket was eyeing some of the higher beams of his structure, and made no comment on his teammate's motives. "I shall give you several hours to rest your ears. Let me know if you require soundproofing."

Drax shut the door behind him, and pressed an ear to the cabin. He heard scampering, and what he thought was animal-sounding chitter. But of course that's not at all what he heard.

-Gamora-

Gamora didn't come to Rocket until two days later, until they'd all listened to Awesome Mixes 1 and 2 on repeat until the tape really would have run dry if Yondu's and Rocket's modifications to the fragile magnetic strips hadn't been done. And the singing was really to keep Rocket out of the upper deck for a while. While Drax had worked on Rocket's cabin, Peter had modified the galley and common rooms with narrow but sturdy catwalks for Rocket, and a series of slide-out stepladders for him to access everything in the galley. Only the cockpit was left as-is, because Nova at least realized that Rocket was a pilot enough to make a co-captain's chair with grips for Rocket to climb into, and a steering mechanism and seat with the right proportions.

As with Peter, Rocket was wrong about what he expected Gamora to need from him. The repair she was looking for was less fine-tuned wires and more percussive maintenance. The casing of her jumpstarter was bent beyond her ability to repair, and, although the mechanics inside were unharmed, it wouldn't conduct the proper electrical charge in a safe and directed manner to restart her implants.

Thankfully, the incessant hammering and yammering had ceased, and Peter had lowered the cassette deck to tolerable levels of background noise. Gamora wedged herself where she could at the foot of the tool cabinet, watching over Rocket's shoulder where he pounded out the metal casing of the device-which looked suspiciously like a Taser- with extreme prejudice. Groot was ensconced under the sunlamp by Rocket's side, and the small furball was on cloud nine. In just a few minutes, the casing looked like new, except the paint that had peeled away. Rocket noticed this too, and wound electrical tape around the spot. He even recognized the paint as insulation.

"Well, now we gotta try it out, don't we?" Rocket said, holding his handiwork up under the sunlamp's light.

"It is quite painful, Rocket, but it gets the job done. Pass it to me and I will try it somewhere safe, like laying down on my bunk," Gamora said nicely, but with force behind the words.

"No."

"No? It fades quickly, after the initial shock. And if I do not test it now, when my agumentations fail in a solar flare, ion storm, or from the reprecussions of an EMP, I will be… I will be helpless."

"And I won't be? I wanna know if this can work on me too. And don't go sayin' I'll fry myself. The normal threshold of death between 100 and 200 milliamps just puts me in shock. And this thing don't go to 250, so I'm not going to burn alive or nuthin'. It's a controlled dose, too."

Gamora glared for a few minutes before realizing what would happen if Rocket's implants and augmentations really did shut down. She'd just freeze up for a while, still able to breathe off the plastic lung augmentations and ability to expel CO2 through her skin if needed. Rocket… would probably not be Rocket anymore. Gamora watched as Rocket stood up with the device, pointed at Groot with a gruff, "Ya don't need to see this, big lug. Be right back, okay?", and walked out of the crawlspace towards his bunk. Gamora hurriedly followed, discreetly clutching Groot's pot behind her.

"You know I can smell him, right?" Rocket said, tipping his head back as he unlocked the door.

Gamora held out the pot in front of her as she entered his space, Groot glowering adorably from his tiny terra-cotta home, a single green leaf flopping over his eye like a delinquent hairdo.

"Fine, Fine," Rocket groaned, as he clamored up to the hammock, holding the jumpstarter gingerly in his teeth as he used all four of his limbs to scale the beams. "Zappy time, guys, see you in a few," he added, when he reached the stretched out green fabric and pushed into it. He powered up the small device and placed it near his right hip. Gamora briefly smelled singed fur, and Rocket sat up, all fur on edge. The device worked as promised, already off after dispelling its charge. Rocket's eyes were as wide as saucers, but Gamora did not see a hint of pain on his face.

"Holy shit," Rocket said. "The pain in my neck is… it's gone. Shit. Wow. I did not realize how bad that was. One of my dampeners must have been offline."

"No pain from the shock?" Gamora asked incredulously.

"Hah, actually, just felt like a bad case of static electricity. But I think it works on me, too."

"Think you can build more? I stole this from Thanos."

"You really underestimate me, Gams. Think? I know I could."

-Rocket-

They were eating breakfast, Groot already transplanted into a pot twice the original's size and the size of Rocket, big enough now to come out and sit with the crew in a temporary booster seat next to Rocket's permanent one. Peter on Rocket's right side, Gamora on Peter's and Drax seated between Gamora and Groot. Everyone facing the two they understood best, and next to the two who were their closest friends. Rocket was picking through the bones of the grilled fish and red rice on his plate, and had definitely acted less of a jerk once he'd had the ability to run, climb, tinker as he pleased, eat a proper diet, and sleep knowing Groot was below him under the safety of the net. Drax had warmed up too, and was singing loudly along with Peter to the sounds of the radio while the two lifted their plates to the sanitizer. Gamora picked at her tiny portion, the crew realizing she needed very little food to subsist on, but still wanted her there for meals.

Then the alarm sounded.

Of course it was a solar flare. It had to be. Gamora could feel it in her bones before the shock knocked her almost out cold. At least there were no enemies, they were safe on the ship. Gamora had the refurbished jumpstarter within easy reach and had instructed Peter and Drax on its use.

Drax spun around, and caught Gamora before she fell. Rocket's booster had armrests, and he did not tip out, but sat there frozen, tail twitching slightly, fur on end. Peter pulled the jumpstarter from his pocket and prodded Gamora in the arm after Drax slumped her body against the table. She reawoke with a start and gasping, scanning immediately for Rocket.

Peter went to use the device on him too, but Groot blocked him, squeaking. Instead, Groot dragged Rocket up to the table and unzipped his jumpsuit, rolling it down to the waist of the comatose carnivore.

"Why shouldn't we use the restarter?" Peter asked, in a panic. "Wait, no translator. Should I use the taser, Groot?"

Groot shook his head. No.

Gamora frowned. "Will only part of him turn back on at once?"

Groot nodded.

"You've seen this before?"

Nods.

"How many times, once?"

Groot point upwards at the ceiling.

"Five times?"

Another point up.

"More than ten?"

Nodding again.

"You're the expert, then. Does his brain take more time to turn on than his… instinct?" Gamora finally asked.

Groot nodded.

"As I thought. If we use the jumpstarter, it will work on Rocket… but not in the order we need," Gamora said with finality. "We need to make sure he's secure and his… I do not wish to say this… animal brain feels safe while the uplifting augmentations slowly come back online."

'First, we need to put him somewhere secure. You usually did that, Groot?" Peter asked. Groot nodded.

"Since Groot is not strong enough to hold Rocket into submission, I shall," Drax volunteered. Groot shook no, and mimed clawing and biting. He pointed at the reason why he'd rolled off part of Rocket's clothing, exposing the implants only he and Peter had seen before. There were small holes in them, in a very familiar pattern.

"Anchoring," Peter mused aloud. I have the clips for me, they're a pretty standard size. But I can't hook them with all this fur in the way. He wasn't this fuzzy on his back the last I saw."

Groot mimed rubbing on Rocket's back with one of their knives from breakfast.

"Oh… that wasn't scarring that made his back bare in the Kyln," Peter realized. "he shaved to make sure someone had access. In case this happened. Wish he told US, too."

Groot pouted, almost as if saying that he'd chided Rocket before for not bringing it up. Groot pointed at the clock display.

"We are, shall you say, 'running with the clock'?" Drax asked, before scurrying down to the cabins to grab his razor. He didn't have time to rummage through Rocket's things for Rocket's own. Peter, meanwhile, raised the volume on the mixtape slightly. "Hopefully, even part of Rocket will recognize this, he said, as the Jackson Five filtered out into the galley. He found the necessary deadlock cables and secured one end to the ship. Groot disappeared below deck, and returned, on still shaky and stumpy legs with his sun lamp, plugging it in where Peter was readying the cables and turning it to its brightest setting, almost blinding Peter in the process.

"You could blind somebody with… oh. You're going to blind Rocket so he doesn't realize he's enclosed."

Groot nodded and hummed, as he positioned it to shine straight at Rocket.

Drax had returned, and Gamora had carefully laid Rocket's comatose body on the table under a towel. With a few quick strokes, the fur surrounding the implants wasn't gone as much as Peter remembered from prison, but enough to be able to plug in the locking cables. Drax picked up the limp Rocket, passing him to Peter, who closed his eyes and locked him into place. The sun lamp should have been last, but Groot was just as anxious, unable to encase Rocket in a nest as was their standard tactic.

Gamora handed Groot the jumpstarter. "I think the three of us should not be here. Our scent will confuse him. Have Rocket come down," Gamora said, stressing 'have', deliberately using the word insead of 'bring' to instill agency on their smartest, but sometimes dumbest, member, "when he is ready." She showed Groot the button to press, and grabbed Peter and Drax each by an arm down to the cabins.

Rocket had repaired their things. Hopefully their things had done the same for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'm kinda developing this weird internal continuity for these stories... placing this one before This is Why I Hate the Vet, which is before Here's Lookin' at You, Kid and I have that sequel to both called Crybaby that I really want to finish, too...


	9. One Rocket, In a Box, As Ordered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket, in a box, as ordered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did 21,339 words in November (NOT including author's notes, comments, etc. I consider that cheating) J. Obviously not 50K, but not bad for a month of writing! Especially with the rest of my life too! Here's Prince-in-Disguise's request. Since I've done so many Rocket centered fics, I decided to take his/her prompt "Rocket in a box" in a different direction.

[9] One Rocket, In a Box, As Ordered

It was a normal supply run. Peter and I were in charge of going to the "respectable" market, buying sundries and food supplies for the ship, Gamora and Rocket went… elsewhere… to acquire replacement parts for their own mechanisms, medicines, painkillers, and occasionally, work (when Nova did not keep us busy enough). Groot refilled the fuel cells and kept a wary eye on the vessel.

We had not even paid for our first purchase when a red-skinned person in a mottled flight suit came up to Peter, eyeing him up and down. Peter cocked an eyebrow at him.

Metaphors, the way people use language to confuse and misdirect- these are things I have always had issue with. Body language, however, was an easy read. Peter knew the man wanted something of or from him, but Peter wanted the man to be the one to initiate the conversation. It would provide Quill with a more advantageous hand if- or when- the situation became violent.

As previously stated, this was just another supply run.

"You a Ravager?" the man asked.

Peter curled his upper lip, very much the way I had seen Rocket do when anyone intruded on his space without express permission. Anger. Or, at the very least, severe agitation.

"Look, man, I'm not here to start a fight," the man with the flight suit replied, palms out and open to show no form of weaponry.

"You almost did," was Peter's curt reply.

"Look, don't shoot the messenger, okay?" he relied hastily. The man expounded a phrase of wisdom. If he was merely the bearer of news, it would be dishonorable to rearrange his internal organs upon the street. That should be reserved for the person, or organization, responsible for eliciting a poor message.

"What do you want, then?" Peter replied loosening up, but only just so. He rolled his shoulder in his socket and sized up the bearer of news.

"Just want to make sure I found the right guy. What does Yondu put in his drinks?"

"Two-hundred and forty six thousand, three hundred and two grams of salt," Peter replied, icily. "And who does he serve them to?" This was a highly unusual patter of question and response. Nobody would ever put that much salt in their beverages, it would contain more sodium than liquid and likely dehydrate or kill the imbiber. Unless… code? Given what I'd gleaned of Peter's prior activities, he had not been performing legal endeavors while a Ravager.

"Your mother's tattered corpse," came from the red man. How morbid for secret phrases.

Peter seemed to have passed the supposed test of authenticity, as he sighed deeply. "Fine. Now can you tell me?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest in indignation.

"Take it," was the other man's only reply, handing Peter an envelope, Peter and I both looked down, and when we looked up not a moment later, he had disappeared. No matter. He was not trying to harm us (unless the envelope itself was rigged with an explosive?) so I had no need to try and pursue.

Peter turned to the shopkeeper, requesting that our items be put aside, plunking down a credit strip to place a hold on the items, before turning to me.

"We're opening this up outside, and away from people," he said, the usual childish grin perpetually gracing his features removed from view. He, for once, did not act as a child might, carefully putting the envelope in his pocket and motioning for me to leave the establishment with him.

I tailed Peter from a distance, a few steps behind and pretended to look at wares along the way. Eventually, Peter meandered back towards the docks and I followed suit. Groot waved cheerfully from the cockpit, holding the fuel bill. Someone had paid it for us. This was becoming… uncomfortable. Peter unlocked the bay doors, and I followed dutifully inside.

"Groot, buddy, I need to ask you a favor," Peter said, the moment he was within speaking range. "You know how to operate Rocket's bomb disposal robot?" Peter was often smarter than he appeared, and felt the same as I about the mysterious message.

Groot shook his head sadly. Peter removed the letter from his pocket next to the rest of Rocket's experiments- projects, rather, as that particular word was not to be used in conjunction with the smallest member of our team upon pain, death, or some tortuous combination thereof. Groot shook his head again. Without his translator on hand, I actually grasped Groot's meanings far better that Peter or Gamora. Groot talks in a way I could understand quite well. And he was motioning for Peter to hand him the envelope. Very cautiously, I handed it to him, and he immediately walked towards the bowels of the ship.

"What was that for?" Peter asked, with a rising tone in his voice. Irritation, mixed with confusion. "It is safest in here, Rocket at least has a containment field around his workbench. We can go back and grab our things, and, if it does go boom or something, it won't explode the ship. Just a desk, and… maybe three other high explosives. Or ten. I can't tell how many bombs Rocket is building at any given moment," he added, gesturing to the desk littered with wire, metal, and other scraps.

"Groot didn't like that envelope, and wanted to open it now. He can survive a small explosive," I responded plainly.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he should be subjected to it if…" Peter tried to reply, as Groot bounded up the stairwell, entirely unharmed and unsinged.

"Well, what do you know," Peter replied. "A letter for Yondu that wasn't also a lethal weapon."

Groot faced the note towards us, and Peter squinted. "Figures. I think that's Kree. Let me go grab a tablet to translate."

"WE HAVE ROCKET," I said aloud, "IN BOX, AS PROMISED. 430,000 UNITS. MEET US 'WEST END DRYDOCK', 14:30 LOCAL TIME."

"What." Peter said flatly.

Groot became panicked.

"I am only reading it exactly as written. Does the small one have a bounty on him? Also, these hunters have very poor grammar. Someone should send them back for an elementary level education." Peter hunched in on himself, I wondered if it was worry, or pain, but he began laughing.

"Thanks, Drax, I needed that," he said, as he righted himself. I wasn't sure quite what 'it' was, but if it helped him regain composure, then I would accept the gesture.

"Let us send Rocket a message before we chase after him," I said, thinking aloud. "It is possible Rocket has done this on purpose. Remember, the message was intended for Yondu."

Peter looked at me, his eyes extremely wide. Was the light quality within the ship diminishing? "Sometimes I forget how brilliant you are, Drax." He pulled up his tablet and sent out messages to Gamora and Rocket, in Xandarian, which I could not read.

"Can you read that aloud, please?" I requested.

"INTERECEPTED MESSAGE FOR YONDU THAT ROCKET WAS KIDNAPPED, DEMANDING RANSOM. ROCKET- IS THIS ON PURPOSE? REPLY ASAP. –PETER, DRAX, GROOT"

Within a moment, a reply. Gamora. Original message in Kree, so the display automatically showed both her message in its original language plus an Xandarian translation set up by Rocket and Peter.

"ROCKET DISAPPEARED ABOUT AN HOUR AGO. HE DID NOT TELL ME ANYTHING. IF GROOT LOOKS WORRIED, THIS WAS LIKELY UNPLANNED.

BUT I KNOW HIS AND YOUR BOUTIES HAVE LONG BEEN CLEARED, PETER.

ROCKET, RESPONSE?"

I turned away from the screen to see a blinking light at Rockets desk. Red. Rocket never used red as indication in devices he built, since he'd once mentioned he couldn't tell it apart from regular light. So it was from his comm unit.

"Peter, he will not respond. His comms is on his desk, half gutted and open."

Peter, Groot and I looked at each other.

"How long until the supposed handoff, again?" Peter asked.

"Twenty seven minutes," I replied.

"No way Gamora can get here in time. Wanna go knock some skulls together?"

"It would be my honor, Peter."

* * *

The three of us huddled around the dry dock. Rocket and Gamora were far better scouts than we, but Peter managed to cobble together a plan. Groot would grow himself up to a window to throw me inside, once Peter confirmed Rocket as safe. He and Rocket (if Rocket was conscious) would shoot their way out with myself and Groot supporting. Gamora had already been hailed back to the Milano and would have her ready to depart as soon as we rounded back to meet her. We would consider the free fuel a net gain in the endeavor, and refill sundries elsewhere.

Peter walked- no, sauntered- inside as if he owned the establishment. Which he did not, because the upkeep and maintenance would probably require him to travel far less. I needed to file this comparison away for later and ask if my use of linguistics had improved. I did not trust Rocket or Peter teaching me idiomatic expressions, but Gamora was often a good yardstick (i.e. point of comparison!) for proper verbal manipulation.

I had a fairly good view from the window, but my ability to hear would be compromised, so Peter turned on the microphone of his comms and I strapped an earpiece on to hear. Groot, So long as he pressed a tendril to the wall, would hear just fine through the vibrations in his body, and did as such while Peter negotiated with the kidnappers. Before entering, he put his helmet on over his face, just in case anyone recognized him as Peter and not another random member of Yondu's crew.

"I'm here for Rocket," he said bluntly.

"Where is Yondu?"

"Representing him," Peter replied bluntly.

"What is two-plus-two?" someone asked from inside. I watched a female Kree move her lips at the same time, she must be their leader.

"Deep fried fish," Peter replied. How many code phrases did the Ravagers have? These must have some meaning behind them.

"Get the box," the woman said bluntly. It was fairly large, and padded, just over half Peter's height. Rocket could stand upright inside without hitting his head on the top, and it was wide enough for him to take a few paces if he wanted. At least the kidnappers had given him that curtesy. I recognized the pinksh foam around the box's corners. Packing material, known for soundproofing. If Peter called out to Rocket inside, Rocket would likely not hear- if he were conscious, that is.

Asking Rocket for assistance was out of the question, and breaking open the box in front of the entire group would take too much time. Groot would have to carry out the entire box, for us to open back on our ship.

My comm pinged. If it was Gamora, this was the absolute worst possible time. I took my eyes away from the scene long enough to look at the sender. Rocket. So he was conscious insi-

He could not be inside the box. Gamora would not call on Rocket's comm, especially considering the biometric locks he had been installing on it. Which meant Rocket was back on the ship, typing to us from the safety of the Milano.

"Peter," I whispered as best I could into the comms system. "Rocket just sent me a message from his comms- I did not read it, but if it was a successful message he is safe and on the ship. It's a setup. I'm coming in."

Groot grunted, full of energy. He must have been pleased to know his friend was doing well, and screamed a bestial (plantial?) shriek as he tossed me through the drydock window before jumping through himself. The men and women inside screamed in terror, one pulling out a sub-machine weapon Rocket would have been pleased to lay his own paws upon, shooting madly at Groot.

"Waaaait," the Kree woman screamed. "Stop. These are the people who fought Ronan on Xandar."

She was Kree, which meant that a different sort of fight would be imminent given our team's current notoriety.

The man with the machine gun tensely holstered his weapon. Two more from my peripheral vision did the same.

"Show yourself," the Kree woman demanded to Peter. The letter had been nonexplosive, and the fact that she had ordered her men to stand down was enough to make Peter rescind his helmet.

"As I thought. Had I known you were the one purchasing from us, I would have done things a little differently. I understand your fame has made you cautious, Mister Quill, but I assure you I hold no ill will towards you or your compatriots. As a matter of course, I did not agree with Ronan or any of the governing elite's decision to remain at war. It is horribly bad for business. Consider it a gift," she said gesturing towards the box that was clearly not Rocket. "If you need my team to retrofit it to your ship I would also be happy to oblige. Just do not frighten my men in the future, will you?"

Retrofit…? So the ROCKET inside the box had indeed been 'rocket', but of the ship propulsion variety. Our smallest member of the team needed a name that was not also the word for a spaceship engine in Kree.

"Th- thank you," Peter sputtered, partially lost in thought. "I have a mechanic on board who can manage."

The team of men and women (whom I could more clearly see from the back of their matching jackets, now that all had turned their backs to us as they walked out of the drydock) from Kotoban Electronics shuffled out of the back of the building, the Kree woman chatting quickly on the comms unit in her hand as she left the building. "…we are writing this off as a charity item. Yes, get my accountant and some Nova officials on this. If we work quickly, we can have an article in the West End Times and on the Xandarian news channels on how our new rocket propulsion engine is powering the Guardian's ship. We're making tenfold back in free advertising and I know for a fact we will get tax breaks on Taspis and…"

* * *

Rocket looked indignantly at the three of us upon his return, or just barely, as he continued to work on the gutted comms unit at his workbench near the galley.

"You order this?" Peter asked, only mildly angry at the mix-up, as he was now in possession of a half-million credit engine that ran on half the fuel as his older model, one that could also incinerate our trash as a supplemental fuel source as well. It was rated slightly slower than the current engine, but could warp longer distances to compensate. Not as useful in a dogfight, but immensely helpful in running dangerous trade routes or planetside missions, which was the majority of the work Nova had given us since.

"Oh, my nine realms of heaven," Rocket said, looking at the designations on the outside of the crate Groot was still carrying. "I want it. I want it now," he added, making little grabbing motions like my daughter used to do outside the toy store. After a moment of compulsory greed, he said in a flatter tone, "Nope. I do know what my budget is. How the hell did you score that?"

"I think I just stole from Yondu," Peter replied, after a moment of mulling the day's events over. "I think, and I can't believe I am saying this, we need to call him and give it to him."

"But it's a Kotoban PQX-5-R. It's not even on the general consumer market yet…" Rocket whined.

"Hey, my engine is plenty good."

"But, but, the triple injection system and…" Groot grew a vine around Rocket's snout to muzzle him quiet, carefully lowering the crate to the ground and shaking his now-free hand, pointer finger up, as if to tell Rocket not to be so greedy. Rocket, now sullen, wrung his hands together and pouted within the muzzle, but did not bite. Groot had incredible control over Rocket's emotional state, and uncurled the vine only when he felt Rocket would not run to unbox the engine the moment he was released. Rocket, in a state of mild depression, followed Peter to the main comms unit. I followed behind, with Groot behind me. Peter called up Yondu for the first time since before we were formed. He knew he was taking a major risk, considering the 'present' Peter had left him instead of the Infinity Stone.

"Whaddya want, boy?" Yondu snapped at him.

"Uh," Peter replied, unsure of how to proceed. I decided to assist.

"We have accidentally acquired an engine you were intending to purchase. We would like to return it to you."

"Like how you accidentally acquired the stone that was supposed to go to me?" Yondu snarled, holding up a small naked doll with wild hair. Peter must have hidden it inside the containment sphere he gave Yondu. This was not going to end well. After a moment of glaring, he… began laughing?

Twice today, I have caused others to laugh. What have I done?

"Be glad I always wanted to steal this offa you, boy," Yondu said, grinning, now holding the small doll by the hair and swinging it back and forth between his fingers. "Yanno, I really did want that engine. You negotiate the price down for me at least?"

"No," Peter replied. It was not a lie, for the other party was the one who had reduced the fee, not us. But I was smart enough to not pass that information on to Yondu.

"The way the message had been worded, we assumed our smallest member had been kidnapped, with the fee as ransom. The price they requested of us was… nonnegotiable," I said in reply.

Yondu looked… a bit pleased with himself. Pleased? Why?

He'd set this up on purpose.

He'd paid for the fuel.

He was probably sitting on the Ravager mothership, just out of the atmosphere.

If he hadn't done what he did next, I would have punched him for using the confusion to his advantage.

"Yanno what," he added, "Those engines are just a bit too slow for my liking. Keep't. Just gimmie the one you gut outta your ship in exchange and I'll forget this happened."

That sly bastard.

The next time I see him I will not punch him. I will offer the finest alcohol we have on the ship, sit with him for drinks and company.

And then I will punch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know? Raccoons can't see red! Red lights just look like light to them.


	10. We All Have Dead People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drax doesn't realize just how strong a sentiment this is for Rocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rocket-based crack happened. You all knew it would eventually. I apologize for nothing.

[10] We All Have Dead People

Rocket, for as long as he could remember, was in a world of pain. Maybe his body wasn’t meant to walk upright for so long (it did abate when he walked on all fours or sat, but only just so), or maybe the scientists who worked on him put something in him on purpose (he was still combing through some of his more esoteric systems, he’d already instructed Gamora on three surgeries to remove things that really weren’t necessary).

Alcohol actually helped, as did a good back massage. He figured the former causes him to sit more often, or act a little more bestial (not that he would admit), and the latter he avoided unless he was in too much pain to move, because pride. And Groot was only toddler sized at the moment, with stubby clubs for hands. Groot knew he wouldn’t be able to alleviate the issue around his implants without breaking something, so Rocket’s pride won out and he wasn’t asking anyone else for help.

That morning, when Rocket couldn’t even stand on his hind legs no matter how hard he tried, Groot gave him an admonishing look.

“I am Groot.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Rocket replied, trying to stand on his back legs for the twenty-seventh time since he awoke, before the jolt running through his shoulder blade told him, no, he would not be doing that today.

“I am Groot,” Groot added, forcefully.

“No,” Rocket barked back.

“I am Groot.”

“Still no.”

“Would you two lovebirds knock it off?” Peter said, storming into the entryway of Rocket’s cabin, seeing Rocket sprawled headfirst in an oversized pillow swathed with blankets and sheets he used as a mattress/nest. “Hangover, bud?” Peter asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“I had shift last night, and I ain’t suicidal,” Rocket said into the pillow, trying to suppress a groan.

“Okay, who hit you? Because if one of the thugs we have in the brig for Nova did it, I can’t promise we will deliver them conscious.”

“As fun as it would be to watch you try to take on three Badoon by yourself, no, nobody hit me,” Rocket said, defeated.

“C’mon man, talk to me. You look like a war broke out on you.”

“Can’t move,” Rocket finally replied., defeated. “My whole back is inflamed.”

“Can I get you some meds?”

“You have anything on this ship safe for me?” Rocket asked, craning his neck enough to actually look at Peter.

“Uh, I dunno. With you being… uh, fuzzy and all.”

“Also half your weight class,” Rocket replied with a snort. “Groot’s bark boiled in water seems to help some, but I’m not making him peel off his skin while he’s a toddler. And if you do, I won’t drink it.”

“Aspirin,” Peter said. Of all the things he remembered, this was one of them, mostly because he’d borrowed, now at this point  _stolen_ , a book on rainforest plants from the school library the day he was taken, meaning it was one of the few artifacts from home he still owned.

“What?”

“We did the same thing back on Earth,” Peter replied. “A lot of plants are anti-inflammatory. Let me ask Drax, that’s more his specialty and all.”

“I can’t believe that lug was a farmer once,” Rocket added, smooshing his head in the pillow.

* * *

 Drax came in next, and unceremoniously unrolled Rocket’s jumpsuit down to his waist to get a better look at the problem.

“I will be as gentle as I can,” Drax said simply, as he lightly danced his massive fingers over Rocket’s swollen, inflamed back. Rocket knew these were his friends, but he attempted to suppress an animal-like whine anyway as Drax touched the worst of the pain.

“Peter, leave,” Drax stated, firmly over his shoulder. “Now.”

Peter snorted, flipping his head back as he left the bunk, “Let me know if I’m needed. I’m going to sulk with Gamora.”

Groot, sitting childlike on the floor of Rocket’s room, looked between Rocket and Drax and then decided to toddle out behind Peter. “You get kicked out too?” was just audible from Rocket’s closed bulkhead door, followed by the sound of Peter’s groaning, becoming more distant with every moment. “Soon you’re going to be lifting me, bud. C’mon let’s go watch the stars roll…”

Rocket brought his attention back to Drax, who had already removed his hands. Peter had been a distraction of sorts, and it certainly worked in keeping Rocket fro crying out.

“I think I can make something with the herbs we have in cold storage to reduce the swelling and pain, but this looks chronic,” Drax said, without any hint of condescendence. Just concern.

“I’ve been thinkin’ there’s something wrong with my implants,” Rocket responded, knowing he was among friends. “I can’t remember the last time I had somebody else look at ‘em. I can do my own maintenance well enough, but…”

“I would be difficult to do extensive surgery on one’s own back, especially with the need to remain conscious. I know there are doctors that would take someone like you.” Drax paused. “By which I mean a cyborg.”

“The clarification isn’t needed,” Rocket said, a little defensively. He thought he knew what Drax was attempting to cover.

“It is. As a farmer, I knew of far more veterinarians than doctors specializing in full body modifications, but they do exist” Drax said in offense. “Or would you prefer for me to comment on the fact that you were an animal once?”

Rocket laughed weakly, reminding himself of Drax’s beautiful, horrible, honesty. “Coming from you, man, that’s a compliment of the highest order.”

“I suppose I will have to consult Gamora in the meantime. Would you at least like some medicine in the interim?”

“Better than nuttin’.” Rocket bit his lip. He didn’t want to ask, but he figured it was better than being incapacitated for the rest of the day. “Also… Groot would massage my back, too. It helps some. But his hands are too big and stiff right now, he’s afraid of breakin’ something back there.”

“In your current state, I’d advise allowing the visible inflammation to subside. I overheard Groot’s bark helps you, no? He probably secretes something akin to a mild acetylsalicylic acid. Why don’t I make a salve instead of something you can imbibe? In the meantime, I will call in Gamora.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

 

Gamora entered last.

Rocket knew this was his last chance out, but they’d find out eventually. Rocket’s cybernetics would go offline while Groot was too small, or he’d get injured enough to be sent to a hospital. Might as well tell them on his own terms.

“Uh, Gammy?” Rocket said, shakily, mouth still partially muffled by pillow.

“Yes?” she replied, getting on her knees to be at Rocket’s eye level.

“Any idea what’s wrong with me?”

“Based on some repairs I’ve done on my sisters, I can hazard a few guesses,” she said, running her hand along the rims of some of the implants. “Can I open you up?”

“Go ahead,” Rocket replied.

Gamora took down Rocket’s tiny tools, perfect for unscrewing the caps off his own implants, and got to work. Five minutes in, she yelled for Peter to bring wet towels and three different gauges of wire. Drax would likely return soon as well. Rocket ticked off in his head the five - no ten- different ways he’d phrase what he wanted to say.

Rocket started feeling hot. Cold, with all his fur, he could do. He hated heat though, and was grateful for the ice-cold towel Peter laid on his head.

“This is a lot worse than I thought,” Gamora mused. Many of the connections have been frayed, and some are hanging together by electrical tape and luck.”

“Rather not go to the docs. I fix what I can, or tell Groot what to do. He ain’t got such good coordination, though,” Rocket sad through a flush of heat, and added, “Plus, I don’t need it gettin’ out I’m a girl.” Wait, no. That was not how he-  _she_ \- wanted to tell them.

Silence. Gamora almost dropped one of Rocket’s instruments, but from the light scraping Rocket could hear, it was from doing a difficult fix, not surprise. “I am almost finished with your temperature regulator, Rocket. Let me know when you are feeling less flush.”

Not even a laugh from Peter. Did they think she was delirious from fever?

“Uh, you think I was jokin’ or crazy?” Rocket asked tentatively after her high temperature subsided.

“No,” Peter said, taking back the towel as Gamora heated up a soldering iron. Drax had also  entered, Rocket could tell by his scent mixed with a strong floral aroma from what he assumed to be a salve. Another musky, earthy woody scent followed behind. Groot.

“None of you seem all that surprised,” Rocket grunted. Now she was numb from the waist down, while Gamora was reconnecting something else.

“Groot told me,” said Gamora, “or rather, typed to me, but the difference is the same. It made more sense as to why genders confuse him so.”

“I accidentally saw your med chart after the attack on Xandar,” Peter added. “You did have me fooled in the Kyln, though. How did you manage to hide it when we got showered?”

“I… well I did say I have eaten one of your kind. Males do not have... shall we say, a bulge between their legs like many two legged sentient species do. It lays flat except during procreation. I figured you did it to remove suspicion or hide from someone. There are only so many ways to effectively conceal your identity when there are so few of your people left,” Drax said, with a hint of experience behind his words. “I assume your voice box is artificial, and you simply altered the pitch and frequency at some point?”

Rocket snorted. “Assholes.”

“There’s no difference what ender or sex you are,” Peter replied. “I mean, Groot is a tree. He grows fruit. Which, if I remember from elementary school biology, is a place where seeds are stored. So he’s a he and a she, or both, or neither. And do you have ANY idea how A’askavarians reproduce? Seriously, don’t get me started because I have experience with that one.”

Gamora remarked as she closed another cap on Rocket’s implants, “I am more curious as to your reason, than anything. Don’t feel obligated to us. Just know that Groot only told me out of worry of some of your hormone injection systems. He knows males and females have hormone levels in different amounts and was worried I would attempt to correct an issue- that did not actually exist- when I did some light maintenance on you.”

For the first time in ages, Rocket’s back wasn’t screaming bloody murder. Rocket was still face sort-of-down-sort-of-to-the side, and saw Drax hand Gamora the salve. Some of the bark was missing from Groot’s arm, Rocket also noted. Also an asshole.

“To remember,” Rocket sputtered, as the feeling slowly returned to her legs and the icy-cold salve stung on the bare skin of her back. “There was one guy in the labs who promised to bust us out. They killed him in front’a us. Have us keep our place. When I got out, I modded my box to have his voice. Honestly, it’s been so long, I duuno what I’m supposed to sound like. The persona came around eventually, when the only jobs I managed were bounty hunting.”

“We all have dead people,” Drax said, echoing Rocket’s sentiments on Knowhere.

Gamora capped the homemade container of salve and stood up, cracking her back. “I can reset it to factory settings if you want- your voicebox that is. Something tells me you will decline.”

“Eh, I’m more interested in women anyways.”


	11. Art Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERMISSION TIME!  
> In which the author shamelessly shows off Guardians art and cosplay to tide readers over until the next chapter is posted.

Gamora, Rocket, and Groot pop art, December 14th, 2014, 10x10 each, acrylic on canvas

Guardians team, August 1, 2014, 12x24, acrylic on canvas:

Your Groot and You!, July 29th, 2014, 11x18, Prisma on bristol board

Rocket Raccoon cosplay, debuted at NYCC 2014 (October 10, 2014), mixed media including pleather, vinyl, fake fur, Model Magic, florist wire, upholstery foam, PVC, and a lot of polyfil stuffing.

 

If you're wondering why the costume doesn't have eye-holes… it does, on one side. I am actually legally bind anyway, so I can't see much at all. I do my artwork mostly by feel.


	12. The Eighth and Ninth Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whistle while you work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it mildly interesting the reactions to the previous chapter. The original plot involved a crossover with Doctor Who and had absolutely nothing to do with Rocket’s biological sex (Rocket breaks down, Groot calls a doctor, and the 12th Doctor picks them up. Shenanigans happen). 
> 
> Somehow the story began warping of its own will. I don’t know how. It also has a larger number of typos. I blame Persona Q for the previous story, because I’m pretty sure my hands wrote it without my brain (on a personal note, I strongly identify with Naoto from Persona 4, google him/her if you are unfamiliar).
> 
> The following story is a direct sequel to “Ain’t Nothing Like Me ‘Cept Me”, which is the fourth chapter for those of you who want to go find it. Yondu/Vance Astro/ Peter fanfic GO!

[11] The Eighth and Ninth Dwarves

“How are you feeling, kid?” Vance asked, as he watched Yondu blink open his eyes. The operation, from a purely visual standpoint, was a success. The scar tissue was healing well, the doctors said, and Vance could see the new plastic frill peeking out from under the gauze. Yondu had chosen the brightest of oranges for the shell, even though his own, the last remnants of it burned at the kid’s request before going under the knife, had been much more red.

Vance Astro, Xandarian microbiologist, did not pry as to why.

Or, more specifically, Vance Astro, **_former_** Xandarian microbiologist. Former to being both a microbiologist and a Xandarian, as a matter of fact. Thankfully his company’s HR rep had put in the medical billing before he got his termination notice (or, more specifically, backdated the fee processing paperwork. The years of bringing desert platters to Prinna Watnai, head of HR and secretarial division, actually paid dividends).

Vance did not even want to consider the hospital fee for replacing a Centurian frill. But now, due to a combination of loosing his post on the Centurian homeworld, which lost him his needed raw flora for his work, which lost him the ability to do said work, which led him to call the Nova corps (it had been **_three whole days_** and no response that the Badoon were literally setting a planet **_on fire_** ), to discover that his company did not, in fact, have a permit to work there as he had previously been assigned. In one swift stroke he lost his job and his citizenship… or, more accurately, if he stepped foot on Xandar, a lengthy jail sentence at the very least.

He still had his (company’s) ship- his boss would have to come find him to come retrieve it, his bank account (moved to an A’askavarian bank long ago due to international travel issues), and the contents in his ship, which were most of his possessions given the two and a half years he’d been spending on Yondu’s soil anyway. All things considered, he would be fine for a while. He just needed to figure out what to do with all time on his hands. Even with the kid, as long as they watched their spending, they wouldn’t need to worry about money for at least a year, more than enough time for Vance to find a new line of work.

It was what to do with the sixteen year old in bandages lying next to him that was the bigger issue.

“I’m okay,” Yondu said, a little too weakly for Vance’s taste. “I can feel again… more or less,” he added. “I have to get used to this,” he added finally, pointing at the plastic embedded in his skull. “It doesn’t… _feel_ … the same way as my real frill did. It’s almost like someone is writing information into my head, instead of me just understanding. Like there’s a translator in between.” Yondu pointed to the ear that Vance had stuck in his translator, which had been removed during surgery and replaced with a more reliable neck chip. Yondu tried to make himself comfortable on the hospital cot, but Vance could see that even five minutes awake was too boring for him.

A nurse passed by, amused. “His species talks through song? I wish I could hear it and understand.”

“Whistling, but yes,” Yondu replied. “Better for communication over long distances, I’ve heard.”

“Yondu, she can’t understand you,” Vance said gently. “My translator is custom-made. Your language isn’t common anywhere outside your own planet.”

“Then I must learn to speak as you do,” Yondu replied after a moment of thought. “I don’t want you translating my speech every time I need to talk to someone.”

“That is probably a good idea, Yondu, but I’ll have one request in return. Teach me, and teach your future children. Centurian, I mean.” Vance was deadly serious.

“I’m not having kids,” Yondu snorted. “I’m a warrior. When I procreate, it’s up to the gatherers in our tribe to raise the young while the warriors continue to hunt.”

“Yondu, your language may die with you,” Vance admonished, reminded of the burning planet on his vidscreen as he’d fled the quadrant.

“Then I will just need to make some new friends, won’t I?” Yondu replied with a devilish grin. “I’ve already got one, right here. A new member of my hunting party,” he added, lightly punching Vance in the stomach. “I just need some more, and we will bag the most fearsome beasts on any planet!”

 ** _Fighting monsters_** , Vance thought. **_Because I could certainly do that. Bounty hunting actually wouldn’t have been the worst thing to do with my life._**

* * *

Yondu had sworn he wasn’t having kids, but the stupid little Terran had grown on him. And a promise was a promise, even if he hadn’t actually agreed to the damn thing. And the kid had been crazy good at picking up languages anyway. He needed to speak something other than that Ing-leash so civilized-types could understand him, and not just him understanding the world. Because if anyone had been there, done that, and bought the overpriced souvenir candy-box in that department, it had been Yondu.

So, in addition to Kraglin teaching the boy geology (gotta know what rocks to keep, toss, or pass off as more valuable rocks), navigation, and Xandarian (being one himself, he had the best grasp of the grammar so as not to end up with Yondu’s hick Xandarian accent, courtesy of Vance Frickin’-Backwater-Planet-of-the-Xandarian-Empire Astro, Yondu took it upon himself to at least attempt to teach the kid Centurian. None of his crewmates could cut it, and Yondu always found some of their random whistling hilarious as they inadvertently said random words in his native tongue.

“WhaddIdo?” Peter asked nervously, head down, as he sat at Yondu’s desk in his private quarters. Peter had never been inside, and felt he’d probably effed something up pretty bad without realizing it, like the time he called Noka a lizard. **Amphibian** , he was sternly corrected, with a warning and a boxed ear.

“Nothin’ yet,” Yondu rumbled, “Unless ya wanna fess up t’ somethin’?”

“N-no sir,” Peter said, a bit too hastily. As long as whatever Peter did do couldn’t be blamed on him specifically, Yondu was more than happy to let it slide. Kid was learning after all.

“Kraglin’s doin’ good on ya. But I’m gonna try an’ teach ya somethin’ he can’t. And boy, if ya can’t do it, I ain’t gettin’ mad. Nobody on this ship ‘sides me can. But give it a try, alright?”

Yessir,” Peter replied, a bit more brightly.

“I’ll even sweeten the deal for ya. You do this, an’ do it well, I’ll show ya how to build yer own gun,” Yondu didn’t add that he was planning on teaching the kid anyway- important skill when you’re a space pirate- but the motivation perked Peter right up.

“What is it?” Peter asked.

“Secret code,” Yondu replied. “And it’s somethin’ that translators won’t translate. Ya learn it, and we can talk t’ each other without anyone else ever understandin’ us. I learned it when I was a kid, but these old farts on my ship are too old to learn a language. Gotta start young.”

“Cooooool,” Peter replied. He was all ears.

“Let me teach you the most important thing first. Askin’ for help. No shame in it, boy, ‘cause its better you come back than risk your pride and lose us all a big bounty, ya got that?” Yondu pursed his lips and whistled two sets of trills, in different lengths and pirches. “That’s how you ask for help. You try.”

Peter had been one of the best bird-calling boy scouts in the area, winning first place at summer camp when he was seven. He was not going to mess this up, especially when these whistles doubled as a cool secret space code the other adults didn’t understand. He mimicked the first trill, then the second.

Yondu had a very hard time hiding his shock. Pitch-freaking-perfect Peter Quill had just trilled out a perfect Centurian ‘pouchling in danger’.

Yondu tousled the boy’s hair, and finally pulled up a folding chair to sit with the kid at his eye level. “Not bad, Quill,” Yondu finally choked out. “First word ya said was yer name. Second is danger. If ya wanna get more specific and tell me why yer running your mouth, you add the reason at the end. Like, this is ‘pirates’…”

* * *

Quill sashayed through the Milano, whistling and clicking lightly with his tongue as he sprayed every surface of the Milano. Cleaning the ship was easier now, because Gamora would shave your hair/fur in your sleep (or, in Groot’s or Drax’s case, hide Rocket’s or Drax’s weaponry- hiding Rocket’s weaponry was pretty devastating for Groot as Rocket used him as a scratching post to vent his own frustrations).

“I am unfamiliar with this piece of music,” Drax mused, as he swiped down the surfaces Peter was spraying.

Peter responded with a wicked grin. “It’s Hooked On a Feelin’.”

“This sounds nothing like the song at all. I know English is not in my translator, but I can tell the melody of your music, Quill, and this is not it.”

“That’s because,” Quill replied, as he sprayed just to the right of Rocket’s ear as Rocket was on all fours scrubbing the deck, to his own enjoyment (and Rocket’s glare), “You just never learned space code.”

* * *

 

Also, here's the finished set of Guardians pop art! Rocket and Star Lord's eyes were made with a special paint, and should glow.


	13. One, Eight, and Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket's broken out of twenty-three prisons. Now his job is to break one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for a great fanfic writer who writes Rocket waaaaay better than I do.
> 
> Enjoy, somelittlemonster!

[12] One, Eight, and Nineteen

Rocket pitched his bedroll up into the cot above him; if he couldn't have a hammock, he'd rather sleep on Groot. Looking around at the meager quarters, he couldn't help hiding a smile.

Sure, he was locked up in a jail cell for the next few nights. But this time it was very much on purpose. Not in the I-know-if-I-steal-the-thing-the-cops-will-be-on-me-before-I-can-go-half-a-parsec, but, like, actually being paid to be here.

Nova had hired the Guardians to test prison security, and structural integrity (seeing as the Kyln was now a cloud of dust floating somewhere in the frigid reaches of space). They'd offered the Guardians a hotel to stay in, or the just-as-newly-constructed guard's quarters, but Rocket made a fair point that they should see the place as much as they could while there, especially at night, and shouldn't just be testing the building, but the guards too- buildings couldn't be tricked or bribed, after all. And maybe give them the money that would have gone towards better lodgings as a bonus.

Surprisingly, nobody disagreed with him. Well, Groot was always behind Rocket, and Drax was… Drax, but he'd expected Gamora or Peter to voice some level of displeasure.

Peter even changed into the prison scrubs he'd worn in the Kyln, short list of petty crimes printed in colored blocks on his trousers for all to see. Gamora just laughed and shook her head, but after her shower, she too, had put her own on. Rocket wasn't the only one who'd kept his, then.

It was the first, and so far, only, time he hadn't burned his prison uniform after he'd broken out- first because he didn't really have the time to on Quill's ship, and then later as a memento of his first real team. (And occasional pajamas until he'd bought new sleeping clothes, because all of his stuff was on the Rakk n' Ruin, his most recent ship prior, parked in Xandar when he'd gone to take down Quill in the first place. Which he'd been dismayed to find had been squashed and utterly destroyed by the tail end of the Dark Aster when it crashed in Xandar at their return, all his stuff with it.)

"Pajama paaaaarty!" Peter yelled down the eerie, empty hallway, breaking Rocket out of his funk.

"Fuck it," Rocket replied, and changed too, before climbing up the bunk and dragging down his bedroll to follow Quill to wherever he'd gotten himself.

* * *

Quill had pushed four of the cots together, in a diamond shape, in the centralized common area, doubling up on mattresses so the night's rest wouldn't be terribly uncomfortable. He'd been thoughtful enough to tie a tarp between the bedposts of two of the bunks, so Rocket could have a hammock. Better than sleeping alone or with just Groot in a cell.

"Always wanted a sleepover," Peter said, sighing with an air of childhood nostalgia.

"So what was it you were doing three nights ago on Rynath, when you did not return to the ship until sunrise?" Gamora asked coyly.

"Wasn't sleeping during any part of that, so it wasn't a sleepover," Peter shot back, with a grin and a wink. Gamora rolled her eyes as loudly as she could. The guard tower outside could have heard it, even if the guards all had cotton in their ears. And were deaf.

"So… uh. Remembering what to do at a slumber party…"

"I'unno, Quill, maybe, and this is a long shot, so work with me here,  ** _sleep_**?" Rocket replied.

"You tired?"

"Hardly." Rocket stuck out his tongue and climbed up the bedpost to roll in his hammock. "But I  **am**  cold. This place has a nasty draft. If it ain't manufactured, I'll need to find out where it's comin' from tomorrow." Groot tossed Rocket a blanket before lumbering into the bunk at his head, Groot's feet dangling awkwardly off the edge of the bunk. He didn't seem to care.

"And they ain't species compliant," Rocket added with a huff. "I did see some cells without furnishings in 'em, so it's possible the oversized stock's not in yet. Sure after the list 'a stuff we'll be givin' 'em, they'll probably be making changes. I already see some problems with the bars in the windows. Too easy for someone my size to slip though, or someone of Drax's strength to break and use as a weapon."

"I looked at the blueprints already," Drax interjected, having returned from his shower and taking a free bunk. "The bars are structural rebar; there will be henza plastic sheeting on the walls between."

"Hoo boy, okay, yeah nobody's getting through that," Rocket replied, rolling on his side to get comfortable. "How they attaching it?"

"Acid adhesives."

"They're burning it straight to the walls?" Peter asked.

"That's… quite intelligent, actually," Gamora replied.

"There are a few finished cells for us to test in the morning. You've been given permission to detonate any explosives you like in there. If you think you could smuggle it inside, you have permission to use it," Drax replied, handing a writ to Rocket.

"Anything?" Rocket asked incredulously. Drax nodded, and Rocket smirked. "Good, because I have plenty of toys I want to blow up. I remade my Laughing Squid. Didn't think I'd even be allowed, 'cause we're on the up-and-up now."

"Laughing Squid?" Peter asked, as he settled into the only remaining bunk, sitting cross-legged, upright, and wrapping a grey blanket over his shoulders like a cape.

"First prison bomb I made. To break out of the first prison I had the unfortunate luck of being tossed in."

"How many planets could it destroy? And you had this on my ship?"

" **Our**  ship, Quill. And it's not meant for the walls. Reason why I wanted everyone here that Nova's hired is that it's usually not the building that's the first to go. It's the people."

"It's not a biochemic…" Peter said gaping, but Rocket lifted a paw up flat to cut him off.

"It ain't deadly, Quill."

"This is a surprise, coming from you, small one," Drax said thoughtfully, shifting on his cot.

"I broke out of twenty-three prisons, Quill, but not all of 'em were meant for- not all of 'em were meant for  ** _people_**. Even before I met you, you big asshole, I had some sense of not murdering people who were innocent. 'Cause I was once, too, y'know?"

"Are we getting bedtime stories?" Peter asked. Rocket almost wanted to snarl, but Quill sounded so freaking honest.

"Fine. Whatever. Let me tell you about Prison Break Numero Uno, you buncha loonies."

_So theres I was, fleein' as fast as my legs could haul ass, and I'd gone into the hangar... There._

"There?" Gamora asked.

"'S gonna take all night if you interrupt.  **There**  is Halfworld. Don' make me say it again."

_So, anyways, I'd gotten myself in the hangar. I knew how to fly already… they'd built me not only because they could, but they needed us for work. Animals don't got no rights, and can't ask for freedoms. So, long story short, flyin' small ships was one 'a the things they'd taught. I'd only done sims, but, they were full cockpit 'n everythin'. I thought I could steal a real ship 'n go._

_'Cept all their ships were meant for them. Hadn't actually built one my size, or if they did, it wasn't in this hangar. I improvised. I snuck inside, quickly jury-rigged some straps I'd ripped off the copilot's seat and my own clothes so I could pull on the controls, and fled like my tail was on fire. It was singed pretty bad actually, so the description ain't too far off._

_So, yeah, I look for civ'lized signals after I'd gotten as far away as I thought was safe. I started pingin' craft, but I'd never been chipped wit' a translator. They'd developed me to be able to pick up languages really fast, and never put one in. So I already spoke Their language, plus Kree, A'askavarian, and a few others. But I'd hightailed it all the way to Xandarian space, and that's one I hadn't heard before._

_I had no idea what anyone was sayin', and I think I kinda flipped my lid a bit._

"I am Groot," Groot said, boughs shaking a little. He was laughing slightly.

"Shaddup, no, I ain't elaboratin' there," Rocket snapped back, affectionately.

"Oh,  ** _do tell_** ," Peter said, invested in whatever was making Groot crack up.

Rocket glared, but continued.

_So I… started chirpin', okay, you humies happy now? I wasn't totally in control of my original… eh, 'mamalian' voice, and I was scared n' shit. I cracked over the mic. I didn't realize at the time if I spoke out in a language, any language, they'd understand me. They must've thought my ship was bein' attacked from the inside by somethin' nonsentient, I'unno? Anyways, I freak the fuck out and curl into a ball on the cockpit floor n' start bawlin'. I was hungry, I was cold, and I had no idea where I was._

Rocket, if he'd been asked before he met the Guardians if he'd ever tell this story to anyone aside from Groot, would have left a smoking crater where the person had once stood. Now, he offered willingly. These people were his team. And, as he realized by their individual urges and quirks, the only one of them who wasn't an animal in some fashion was Groot and Groot alone.

And don't get Rocket started on plant biology, because that's another thing entirely.

_So, the airlock must'a been opened, and some Nova officers come in, though I didn't know what they was at the time. They see the shredded co-pilot's seat and me, a scarred, fuzzy quivering ball on the floor, and assume I was the poor, injured, scared pet of somebody who'd already been spirited off. One of 'em picks me up, kinda pudgy guy?, and he starts petting me, and offers me some food from his bag. I'm too hungry to care, and rip into it. Dude picks me up and takes me to the airlock, where their ship is attached by a breathin' tunnel. I can hear 'em talking, and whatever they did to my brain is already starting to parse out their language, but not enough to talk back. They're the first sentients I'd met other than the scientists 'emselves, and they was so much bigger than me I kinda just let 'em do what they was doin'._

_Slowly I start understand'n 'em, but a lot of the words they used was for things I didn't have no clue what they was. I stayed quiet, this point wrapped in a blanket, just tryin' to absorb what I could from the conversation._

_We dock on Xandar, not that I know that's where I were at the time, and the chubby guy picks me up, rolled in the blanket. At this point, I'm warm, full, and feeling a bit better. Once I'd put together enough of the language, I'd open my trap and request amnesty. I remember the lab guys talking and worried about us experiments doin' just that, so if they was worried, it should be first on my list of things to do, even though I had no clue what amnesty were._

_I fell asleep carried in his arms. Maybe if I'd been awake and piped up when I had the chance, things would've been different. Maybe not. I'unno._

_I woke up in the Nova guy's house. He gives me a pat on the head and some meat. This, my friends, was the start of prison break number one when he scratches me behind the ear and says, "Looks like you're microchipped buddy. I'm taking you down to the animal shelter later so they can read it and call your master. You've been a good boy, but you belong to somebody." I sat in shock for a moment, while he strode out of his house, locking me in._

"Well, shit," Peter remarked.

"I am Groot," Groot added, poking the underside of Rocket's hammock with a finger.

"Not yet, that's funniest at the end, you big ol' idjit," Rocket replied, pushing back at Groot's finger through the fabric with a foot.

_So, yeah, 'well, shit', just about sums it up. Sure, I have food in my stomach, a decent night's sleep, but I ain't got no clothes, no money, and no idea where I am or where I could go. And my ship's prolly long gone._

_I figure the first order of business is getting somethin' on my body, stealing whatever nonperishables I can find, and getting the heck out. Nova guy has a kid, I realize, finding a room of smaller sized clothes and furniture. Clothes just a bit big on me, but I find some pants and a shirt and carefully rip a hole for my tail._

" **Please**  tell me you have pictures of this, Rocket," Peter interjected, barely hiding a laugh.

Rocket ignored the comment and kept going.

_Took the kid's bag, too, it was more or less the right size on my shoulders, 'n raided their kitchen. I did write out an apology note in Kree. Hoped one of 'em could read it._

"You, Rocket, of all people, apologized?" Gamora asked in shock.

"Like I says before, I know when somebody's innocent. Blowing shit-and-or-people up's only fun when you're morally superior to 'em. This guy was a freaking saint by comparison to everyone else I've met 'sides Groot."

"You know of us now, small one," Drax added.

"Let me reiterate:  **This guy was a freaking saint by comparison to**   **everyone else I've met 'sides Groot**." Rocket shook his head and resumed, muttering 'idjits' under his breath.

_So I go to the door, and surprise, surprise, it's locked up. I hadn't learned computers yet, and this was not the kind a security system you could break down with percussive maintenance, something I learned quick after runnin' into it full force._

_So I consider my options. I'd been designed as a tool 'o war. Fly small ships in, land, set or diffuse landmines. Something lightweight, good with their hands, and more-or-less camouflaged to native populations._

Rocket smirked. They'd done too good of a job.

_Yeah, so, anyways… I figure the best time for me to scram is when Nova guy gets home. Distraction, run, simple enough. I needed something to piss him off and upset him. I look around his house, and see this man is a neat freak._

_I'mma make a stinkbomb. I find a plastic container, and mix up the most foul smelling explosive I'd made to date. Weaken the structural integrity so it'd separate safely when thrown, pressurize it with the NO2 from a can I find in his bathroom- shaving cream, I think?- and the minute he gets in that evening I let in rip and run like hell. Felt bad for the bastard, but I ain't letting nobody take me back There. Dude was coughing up a lung for as long as I could hear 'im as I fled._

"I am Groot," Groot said, indignantly.

"Oh yeah, that," Rocket said. "The best part. Dey's the one that found me. There's a reason why he was always on my ass whenever I ended up in the slammer afterwards. I did return his daughter's jumper. Eventually."

Gamora, Drax, and Peter all leaned back in their bunks, laughing, while Groot and Rocket just smiled. "Hey, I even patched up the hole I'd cut for my tail. Kid'd already grown out of stuff that size, though." The three laughed harder.

"Okay," Peter said between wheezes. "Okay, that was pretty good. Who's next?"

"I am Groot."

"Yeah, fine, I'll translate for the hairless ones," Rocket said.

"This… will prove to be entertaining at the least," Gamora said, after she'd regained her composure.

_I cannot say I have any particularly interesting stories prior to meeting Rocket, he seems to carry the insanity with him_

"Whoa, whoa, hold up, short stack," Peter cut in, "When did you actually learn how to talk?"

"'S called creatin' my own voice, numbnuts," Rocket shot back. "I know HOW to talk proper-like, I choose not to. Unless I'm translatin'."

"You do this on purpose so when Groot wants you to speak for him you can separate the two," Drax said. Unfamiliar with wordplay, certainly, but Drax was quite perceptive.

"M'be," Rocket mumbled.

"I am Groot."

"No more interruptions, yes?"

"Sorry, bud."

"My apologies, friend tree."

_Well, the first story that comes to mind is another prison breakout. My first, and Rocket's…_

"Eighth" Rocket said, cutting off Groot halfway between the "am" and the "Groot" he was translating over. Groot grunted in agreement.

_Rocket's eighth. If you wish to be technical, of the seven before this, four were prisons. One was Dey's home, and two were animal shelters. If I am not mistaken, every breakout thereafter was a prison intended for sentients. The police stopped sending Rocket to shelters once we began working together._

_I was in the West Waters for disturbance of the peace, obstructing an officer from duty, and resisting arrest, all three instances due to not understanding the local language and having no means to communicate, either. Much like Rocket's first, incidentally._

_I mostly kept to myself. No-one bothered me, my size and visage enough to scare most away, and I didn't even know how to ask how long I was to be detained. As long as I had water and a patch of sun, it did not matter._

_The problem was that West Waters is built inside of an asteroid, with no access to natural light. More than two weeks there and I would probably have starved to death._

_On my third day, Rocket was brought in. He'd bitten one of the guards in a thinly veiled accident and bore his bloodied teeth at me. He must have assumed-_

"I  **did** assume he was the big man on campus. I did not want to become a fuzzy throw rug," Rocket added, half in his own slur and half in the cleaner accent he used for Groot. Groot poked him through the hammock for the interruption.

_Moving on, he quickly realized how sullen I looked and kicked me in the shin about three hours later, asking what the issue was. As per usual, I spoke the only way I knew, the three words I can say with their actual meaning in a pitch most humanoid creatures cannot hear. But Rocket looked like a maintenance mammal- the small creatures on my planet who help with the nursery- our saplings, to grow- and they can hear our true meanings. So I hoped he was the same. He scrunched his muzzle at me in curiosity as I attempted to explain my situation._

_"You're too good t' be in here," he replied in the tongue of the maintenance mammals after I finished my story. I was shocked. I'd never seen a creature like him before, and as leader of my people, I would certainly have…_

"Whoah, freeze, you two," Peter said, surprised. "Leader?"

"Uh, yeah," Rocket replied nonchalantly. "Sorta. Exiled prince of Planet X. Didn'tja read our rap sheets, oh sir one-count-of-illegal-manipulation-of-Gramosian-duchess?"

"Jeez," was Peter's only reply as he processed the information. "Why'd you get kicked out of Heaven?"

"Too much free thinkin', ain't that right?"

"I am Groot," Groot replied as an affirmative.

_So, where was I? Ah, yes. I'd explained my predicament to Rocket and asked how he spoke the language of my planet._

_"I get in 'n out of prisons like nobody's business, bud. And it can get kinda borin'. Let's see if we can't sort out what they did to ya, okay?"_

"Writing an apology letter to Dey, I can almost imagine this. But offering to help a complete stranger, Rocket? What happened to you?" Gamora asked. Rocket couldn't see her face from the hammock, but was almost positive she had raised her eyebrows high enough that they'd flown off her head.

"I am Groot."

_Oh, as Rocket mentioned earlier, he does not like touching innocents. He would prefer his quarry to have screwed up worse than he. But believe me, while he was certainly honest in his assistance, his intentions were not wholly altruistic._

"Damn straight," Rocket added in his own voice with a chuckle.

_He marched right back to the guards and demanded an audience between myself and them. At first they didn't believe him, but he pointed out that he was an asshole and gained absolutely nothing from this. He just liked languages and actually felt bad for me. Plus, he added, starving a price because of inadequate conditions might lead to a war. Of course they still refused to believe him. I'm not sure how he finally convinced them to liason with me._

"I had them call that shippin' company."

"I am Groot?"

"Yeah, Surban. That one. The one your family approved to trade on X. You were exiled off in one of their ships, so I fig'rd someone could vouch for ya. Worth a shot. And damn, the face 'a those guards when they got off the holo was the most delicious shade of pink. Man, when they realized I was bein' honest an' helpin' some stranger? Someone must've thought they was dead."

"I am Groot."

"Yeah, yeah."

_Rocket sat with me and translated the conversation back and forth. When they'd confirmed who I was, and that my charges were due to the inability to communicate, they promised I would be released in a few hours on a ferry to a nearby planet of my choice, and compensated for my trouble. Rocket offered me his impounded vessel instead, as his sentence was to be two full Xandarian years. Considering that he'd already gone through the trouble of being as nice to me as he had been, the officers accepted it without question, other than reminding Rocket that the action would likely have no bearing on the length of his sentence. Rocket signed the transferal paperwork without complaint. He later told me he'd said to the guards that royalty being in debt to him would probably be useful when he had finished his time, and that was that._

"Remember how I said that people are weak'r than the buildin'? Right there, classic example," Rocket added with pride.

"You misdirecting little bastard," Peter said as he mulled over the situation in his head. "How did you sneak out with Groot?"

"Not  **with**  Groot.  **In**  Groot."

"But, how?" Drax asked. "Is he hollow?"

"Damn straight Groot is hollow. Animals on his planet have a symbiotic relationship with Groots, and many animal/Groot pairs stay together for life, with the Groot providing fruit and shelter, and the animal killing parasites and pruning branches."

"I am Groot."

"Right back at'cha, ya lumbering oaf."

"That's… well, I don't have any prison stories that can top either of those. I mostly got detained overnight until a Ravager paid off my bail," Peter said defiantly.

"I was never incarcerated prior to the Kyln," Gamora added. "Never got caught."

"I believe the night finishes with me, then," Drax offered. "It is getting late, anyway."

"Oooh, now this, I gotta hear," Rocket said, cackling.

"I can assure you, it is nothing so sneaky as either of your exploits. It was simply a stroke of good luck."

"How so, Muscles?" Rocket asked, curious.

_I was detained for excessive property damage. Nothing as high security as the Kyln, mind you, but midlevel. Smugglers, bounty hunters that bent the law to take down their marks. Single counts of murder at the worst, and most of those with extenuating circumstance._

_I'd been backed into a corner, near the plastic that separated us from the control room at the core. Brawl. I did not wish to elongate my sentence, but as the guards did not seem to care if we participated, I decided the practice to be a good break from simply lifting weights in the exercise room._

_I am not sure how or why the fight began, but I readied my fists nonetheless, and participated with gusto. A few minutes in, I had thrown one of my assailants clean through the security tower's plastic and witnessed his body slide across the control console. Alarms blared._

_The prison's lockdown had been overridden, and I fled._

"That's… hey," Rocket said. "Thanks for that."

"The story? As I said, it was not nearly as interesting as yours had been."

"Well, sure, the story, but I'm talkin' about the throw. Remember when I said it's usually the people to go before the buildin'? Who'd you think started that brawl?"

"It could not have been… no, it was the two of you?"

"We was gonna use the confusion to sneak into the tower and disable the computers, but you did the work for us. That was number nineteen. So, yeah, thanks, Drax."

"I think tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day for those Nova guards," Peter said, as he rolled over and promptly fell asleep.


	14. Cheer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Frickin' Christmas

[13] Cheer

"Peter seems quite despondent."

"I am Groot."

"No kiddin'. Wonder what's eating him?"

"I believe, unless you can sense a creature I cannot, Peter is not being consumed, except possibly by bacterial or fungal vermin we all carry within us."

"Expression, Drax. Means I wonder what's causin' his… er… despondency."

Peter had wished them a curt "night, guys" before walking (not dancing, they all noticed, but walking. Like, one foot in front of the other, without a shimmy or shuffle to be seen) back to his quarters and promptly sealing his airlock. It was an unspoken agreement that unless it was a serious issue (or Peter had brought an outsider home for some 'personal time') nobody locked their doors. If there was some reason they needed to get out fast, the only thing a locked door was good for was being turned to scrap by Drax or Groot. The remaining crew all sat around the kitchen table, pondering what could possibly be wrong.

"Maybe he's in heat or sommat- we've been floating through space for almost a month so he hasn't been able to…?" Rocket piped up, before Gamora scrunched her face in disgust and cut him off.

"Terrans don't have a heat cycle," she said as impassively as she was able. "If that is his issue, he should know how to take care of it himself, anyway."

"Do what now?" Rocket asked innocently. He'd never had a need to research Terran biology in detail, and mostly assumed it was similar to his own on the inside, just taller and more deaf.

"You can look up reproductive systems on your own time, Rocket," Gamora replied exasperated.

"Maybe he's homesick?" Drax asked, noticing Gamora's distaste of the current conversation for reasons beyond his comprehension (reproduction was a healthy and normal thing among most adult sentient species, so why would she bristle so?).

"I am Groot," Groot offered helpfully.

"Point," Rocket said, as he pulled out his data glass, before translating for Drax and Gamora. "Groot asked if today was special-like for him back on Terra. He's from somewhere on the continent of America, right?" Rocket didn't need to take long to search. It was pretty obvious that that date was special for Peter. "Looks like it's the late afternoon or early mornin' in America right now. Damn that continent is huge. And the date's sommat called Christmas Eve. Seems to be a big deal." Rocket expanded the glass viewscreen and expanded the search.

"It's the day their religious leader was born a few millennia ago combined with a winter solstice celebration," Gamora stated, reading the display. "So it's similar to Tephra for my people. Ward off evil with fire and decorations, have a feast, celebrate life in the darkest of days."

"We had a similar celebration upon our own solstice. A time to be with…" Drax's voice dropped off. "Family."

"That idiot," Rocket said, arms crossed. "He's got a frickin' family, right here. Let's throw him a party. Lesse what kinda traditions ya do for this."

x

Drax was placed in charge of cooking. They found out quickly that 'traditional' dishes varied quite widely for the holiday- some served seafood, others small game or bird dishes. The only consistency was that there was to be a lot of food, particularly hearty dishes often only served at the time of year, and plenty of drink and desert. This Drax could do.

Groot was to do decorations, especially after he noticed that people brought trees inside their homes and covered them in lights and metal strips and glass globes that twinkled. He'd run off into Rocket's workshop to grab everything that wasn't an explosive.

Gamora was to take care of gifts. She hid off in a small corner of the ship and began searching through their digital photographs, finding good ones to frame as filmys, hissing if anyone else even came close. As the hours ticked by, a large pile of rectangular and square wrapped packages formed around her feet.

Rocket said there was one thing they were still missing, and he'd take care of it himself. He'd detached the comms unit from the main control console and brought it down to his own cabin, shutting and sealing the door. Sealed, the cabins were incredibly soundproof. Peter wouldn't be able to hear anything they were doing, but Rocket didn't want the rest of the team to know he was currently pleading with a madman.

x

Peter awoke. His pillowcase was still soaked in tears, and he rubbed his bleary, puffed eyes. One day of the year he allowed himself the time he needed to piss and moan at the world, and even on Yondu's ship they understood the significance and gave him the space he needed.

Peter was done. He'd cried it out, and felt much better as he'd sat up and cricked his neck. Now that he'd finished moaning about missing the one day that was important to him back on Earth, he could get back to being his happy, carefree self. He went to dress, when he heard an alarm sound.

Shit.

Still in a pair of sweats and a loose sleeveless top, he slipped on his boots and grabbed a blaster, depressurizing the airlock door.

Hallway. Nobody there.

All the portholes were backed out somehow. He touched one. Whatever it was, it was blacking them out from the outside.

The whole ship was silent. All of the other cabin doors were open, no signs of struggle or forced entry in any. No standard coded warning they'd all agreed upon.

Just the damn blaring alarm.

Peter realized it was a drill they'd set up for him, and he relaxed his shoulders a bit, cracking his neck. Then he looked down and saw the arrows made with painter's tape on the deck. He followed. If they had time to mark the floors, they obviously were fine. But why sound the alarms?

He followed the final arrow to the main hatch. Ah. They wanted to prank him probably, as he looked way uncool running out of his ship in pajamas and boots. He'd play along, for now, and hooked the blaster into the weapons rack at the entryway, and grabbed his earpiece for his helmet. Just in case.

He pressed the release.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

"I AM GROOOT."

"Hey fuckface, come here and open your presents!"

Peter stared. The Milano was docked inside the Excelsior's hangar, and not only were all of the Ravegers standing around the ship in their sleeping clothes, so were the rest of the Guardians. The hangar had been strung up with paper chains and LEDs, and Groot stood proudly in the middle, draped with as many shiny decorations as could cover him, with a field of wrapped gifts around his ankles. A number of the old mess hall tables had been brought down into the hangar, laden with food and the old-as-sin buffet trays. But instead of smelling like slop, Peter was overpowered by the smell of… actually good food. Drax must have commandeered the galley from Josta. Somehow.

"Well, don't just stand there with your mouth like that. What do ya think?" Rocket asked with a smirk, arms crossed over his tiny little body, obviously very pleased with himself.

"I, uh, wow, this is crazy. Thank you."

He didn't have the heart to tell them all that he wasn't upset he'd missed Christmas- hell, he didn't even know what day it was back on Earth. But he knew what day it was on the Centurian calendar- a calendar with fewer days than Earth's by enough of a margin that, even though he remembers it warm enough to not need a coat when he was taken by Yondu twenty six years ago, the day his mom died by Centruian count could eventually wrap back around to December.

If today was December 25th back home, he could tell them fifty days from now that he was Jewish. Rocket would get a kick out of Purim anyway.

I mean, he was only eight when he left but it was commanded that you should drink on Purim until you couldn't tell the difference between good and evil. Peter thought he and Rocket should definitely test this theory.

But today, today he had family to get to.


	15. He Say, She Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things aren't better left unsaid

[14] He Says, She Says

We'd just struck out delivering our last job, the contact none-to-pleased with the fact that our retrieval was not in perfect condition. Rocket, in an effort to show the rest of us (maybe as a form of deep-seated discomfort of being one hair's breath away from being fired-or thrown out an airlock) that he was a productive member of the team, went a bit heavy on the flamethrower and singed the item we needed for retrieval.

They still paid, of course, and we had enough for food, gas, necessities and our typical post-payment meal out, but beyond our shared kitty we each usually took a private share of money. We all had things we wanted to consider 'ours', and especially on a smaller ship, this was an important thing to have.

A bit deflated, all of us went to the circle of intergalactic food carts on Knowhere before heading out to find new work. It was a favorite of everyone on the crew- Knowhere was a colony of miners and outlaws, and the carts usually rotated to feature food from cultures that had long been scattered and ended up here. Once, we'd been fortunate to stop when a Zen Whoberi couple had set up shop cooking thin pancakes on a griddle, and I knew we'd always have to eat here when we'd finished a job on Knowehere, two hour line for a street stall lunch be damned.

I'd gotten lucky today, some junker family who'd snuck on Earth a few times had their stall out of their take on American cuisine- one of the rare chances to get macaroni and cheese since Drax, I'd found, was horribly lactose intolerant and I couldn't possibly ask him to cook it just for myself and Rocket. Groot ran off to the vegetarian hippy cart, while Drax ambleded over to a Badoon stall cooking stews so spicy my eyes watered if I even thought of getting too close. Of course he was lactose intolerant and couldn't indulge in my favorite foods but had to come from a culture that believed the amount of hot spices in a dish had to be measured out in kilograms. Gamora had earned such a rapport with the Zen Whoberi couple that, before we'd dropped off the painting, she called them on the comms excitedly to tell them she was on Knowhere. This gave her the wonderful distinction of having her favorite meal- although a bit cold- ready for her to skip the two-hour wait line.

We were already well into our own meals, squatting around overturned crates for a makeshift table, when Rocket, who always tried something new whenever we came, having no real 'home cuisine' of his own, tottered over holding six skewers from the Kree barbecue stall, three of meat, two of hard vegetables, and the last of seared fruit, five of which he hooked upright into the holes in the crate in front of him as he ripped into his first meat-stick with animalistic gusto. "Woulda been nice if those jerks paid us like they was suppose to," he mumbled between inhaling pieces of meat.

"We are on Knowhere. There are likely enough work options for us here to make up what we missed," Drax said gravely between slurps.

"Guys, I know we are all pretty down. We only got half what we were promised, but we did kind of, I don't know, singe the painting we were supposed to retrieve in good condition?" I said between spoonfuls of cheese-soaked pasta, trying my best to be honest to the team, but not ruffle Rocket too much. ' _Rocket….,'_ I thought, as I wiped cheese sauce off the scruff of my mustache, _'next time calm down and chill out. I know you feel like you need to do more, but seriously, when you feel like you don't need to impress us is when you do…'_

"Don't go lookin' at me, humie," Rocket retorted, and I knew I'd done a poor job of choosing my words, tone, or both. I wished I could just look into what he thought, or let him see into my head, if only for a moment. He just needed to understand that he wasn't going to get thrown under the proverbial bus for being him. All of us were pretty effed up, and he seriously wasn't even close to the worst offender in that department.

"Ah-hem…" I glanced to my right, where a slender green woman with antennae was siting with a glass of iced tea and something like a reuben on pumpernickel, probably from the junkers. She gave Rocket a small smile.

Rocket suddenly began to choke on his stick of grilled vegetables, and Groot raced into action.

"I am Groot," the Colossus roared as he reached over the crates to preform a repertory maneuver.

Rocket began coughing like mad. "That… that frickin' witch! She's gonna pay!" he screamed aloud.

"What did she do?" Gamora asked pointedly, suddenly finding something more interesting than her crepe-ish meal to be worried about

"If she has harmed you, I will rip out her spine," Drax said, infuriated.

"She… she… was inside my head!" Rocket screamed, infuriated, then looked towards me and blinked. He began to calm, and I watched him curl and uncurl his claws around one of the skewers.

"I will go hunt her down and stake her upon the table for this transgression," Drax said, as impassively as when he called us to the table for dinner. I am still not sure when his tone of voice isn't utterly terrifying.

Rocket twitched his whiskers and looked up at Drax. "Hunt her down and bring her back, sure. But in once piece, please. Don't hurt her none."

Considering Rocket's often wonton love of violence, telling Drax to go easy on the mystery telepath was a bit of a surprise. If she really was a telepath, though, we could probably find out some way of borrowing her for an afternoon of cheap work, she'd either be of the decent sort (at least decent for Knowhere) and offer her services to us for hurting who she probably realized was a Guardian, or would be able to tell from reading our minds not to mess with us and offer some help because I only have so long of a leash on an angry Drax or Groot.

Seeing as I know my limits in chasing down a freaking teep, I pass my drink to Rocket and wait with everyone else for Drax to barrel back with a hostage slung on his shoulder.

* * *

I sat down on a crate at a small excuse for an outdoor seating area for a half-dozen street stalls, parked in a half-circle around us. Crates stacked two high became seats, three or four high were tables. I'd just sat down to enjoy a glass of tea mixed with condensed milk and a thick slab of dark bread rolled around meats and cheeses from the West Vega cart, when they sat down aside me, five of them each carrying a tray from a different vendor.

One of the five at the table- the one in the leather-ish jacket who looked to be Xandraian- carried back a wooden tray that had long seen better days, a disposable cup filled with the smell of something both strong and overly caffeinated, and a chipped bowl filled with pasta in a heavy creamy, cheese sauce from the Milky Way Diner cart. A Flora Colossus who was a very, very long way from home carried a plastic plate laden with steamed vegetation from the cart to it's right. I couldn't read the sign, but it could have been Skrull. The large, tattooed man squashed next to the Colossus at their stack of crates-turned-table was already wolfing through a massive bowl of spiced meat stew from the Badoon stall. A Zen Whoberi lady sat to his side, lightly munching on a thin rolled pancake stuffed with fruit and soft cheese from the stall I normally took lunch from, if the line hadn't been so long today.

The other four were already well into their own meals when the last of their group tottered up, holding six skewers from the Kree barbecue stall, three of meat, two of hard vegetables, and the last of seared fruit, five of which he hooked upright into the holes in the crate in front of him as he ripped into his first meat-stick with animalistic gusto. "Woulda been nice if those jerks paid us like they was suppose to," he mumbled between inhaling pieces of meat.  _I mean, sure, we got enough for the communal pot, but I wanted my own money._

"We are on Knowhere. There are likely enough work options for us here to make up what we missed," the tattooed man said gravely between slurps.  _Well, there goes my extra side money that I intended for asking Gamora to…_

"Guys, I know we are all pretty down. We only got half what we were promised, but we did kind of, I don't know, singe the painting we were supposed to retrieve in good condition?" the Xandarian said between spoonfuls of cheese-soaked pasta.  _Rocket…. next time calm down and chill out. I know you feel like you need to do more, but seriously, when you feel like you don't need to impress us is when you do…_

"Don't go lookin' at me, humie," the barbecue-eating one retorted.  _I'm already pissed enough at my self as it is. One day Peter's going to kick me outta this outfit and I already know I deserve to be treated like the garbage I am. It's useless._

"Ah-hem…" I said, getting their attention, before extending my telepathic reach to the one the Xandarian ( **Peter** , I corrected internally) called Rocket.  _Peter does not seem to think of you as you do he, so relax. I have heard many stories of your intelligence and bravery._

Rocket began to choke on his stick of grilled vegetables, while I blushed and arose to refill my drink at the café stand. The small one was probably unused to telepathic thought, and I'd invaded his space by him not recognizing what I was.

"I am Groot," the Colossus roared as he reached over the crates to preform a repertory maneuver.  _Sit still and breathe out. I will dislodge the tuber for you._

Rocket began coughing like mad. "That… that frickin' witch! She's gonna pay!" he screamed aloud.  _I am going to rip so many holes into her face that she won't know which one to eat from that little…_

"What did she do?" the Zen Whoberi asked pointedly.  _If she has done something foul, I will lacerate her body until she stains the walkway from here to the docking bay._

"If she has harmed you, I will rip out her spine."  _If she has harmed you, I will rip out her spine and use it to prop up the new spice rack you built for me last week._

None of them recognized me as from a species that was telepathic, and the last thing I wished for this afternoon was to be clawed, impaled, or less one spine. I chalked up he half eaten sandwich back at my 'table' a lamentable loss, and hurried myself out of the food court before any of them could think to track me down.

* * *

It did not take long for me to catch up with the telepathic female. The chase was difficult at first, she moved far too quickly for her smaller stature, but was likely within range to read my own movements, giving her two advantages. However, she quickly slowed down her speed, so that, by the time I did catch up to her, she was sitting in a broken lounge chair outside a café in the residential quarters of the station. She must have also gleaned off of my mind who I was. Who we were.

I did not need to subdue her. She offered to be carried if I preferred, but she walked by my side back to the food stalls.

Was she afraid of us? Of me?

"Not anymore," she said simply as we walked back to the rest of the group.

* * *

"At least now I can finish my sandwich… a reuben, you called this, Peter?" she asked, as she picked up the half eaten meal at her crate and ripped into it with her mandible.

"You are far too calm, woman," Gamora said, seething. I raised a paw in contention.

"If she's a teep, she already knows who we are." I added, doing my best to clear my mind. Not so she couldn't read it, but now that I knew she could, I didn't want to oppress her with the depths of it… well shit, never mind then, jerkbrain.

And all she did was smile. The hell.

"You should see mine, sometime," she said, grinning. "And I know why you wanted me back," she added, pointing at me. "You're welcome."

_Can you give me this week's lotto numbers, too?_

"Telepath, not clairvoyant," she chided, antennae curling back as she finished the last of her food.

"I don't want to know what you just asked her," Gamora said, disgusted.

"Mantis, not  **her** ," she corrected, leaning inwards. "Pleased to know you all. Now, I see I am to provide reparations for the mental distress of a mister Rocket, here correct?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, seeing as I work directly under the head of security for this station, I can guarantee you work anytime you are here.

And, Drax, just ask Gamora out already. You don't need the bonus money to take her to a park at sunset, her favorite dating spot. Rocket, get over yourself and ask for scratches behind your ear. Everyone else in your team would love to pet you. Peter, just give Yondu a call now and then? He's not going to shoot you through a holoscreen and I'm sure he misses you too. Groot? Hm… I honestly have nothing."

While all of us picked our jaws up off the floor, Mantis stood up and brushed the crumbs off her jacket and sashayed away. "We've got a problem with some illegal gambling in the extraction district," she called to us as she walked off, and paused for a moment to turn and face us. "Thank you, Peter, I know I'll see you in thirty minutes at the eastern security checkpoint."

Drax and Gamora both did their species' equivalents of blushing as Drax finally sputtered out, "The observatory…?"

"I would be honored," came Gamora's reply.

They didn't need to be telepathic to set up the most dangerous date in the galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teep is Marvel's term for a telepath (not derogatory). Mantis is my favorite Guardian, and while I doubt she'll be in the next movie, I hope she is. Telepathy is fuuuun!


	16. Two Things are Certain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If one is death, what's the other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve started looking to Kinkmeme to find some prompts to fill, because other than three stories (the final one for this anthology, a Gamora/Rocket one, and Peter’s retaliation for what happened at the hospital) I am running a bit thin on ideas. Thankfully, Kinkmeme actually has a number of really cool prompts that aren’t M-rated (like Yondu teaching Peter Centurian!), so I have some interesting story options.
> 
> Again, if you have a request, fell free to bug me!
> 
> This one is also a Kinkmeme fill, but I won’t say what.

Kraglin twitched nervously back and forth. This… this wasn’t good. Peter had just called them up on the holo looking distressed. Kraglin knew that Yondu no longer saw the kid as a member of the crew, but he was still Yondu’s boy. And whomever broke the news to Yondu that Peter was on the line five seconds away from hyperventilation would probably have that yaka arrow to their throat faster than they could yell “shit!”.

Kraglin decided to finally bite the bullet, his own life be damned. “Captain, Peter needs you,” he said, as impassively has he could. “On line three.”

“The hell that boy wants?” Yondu roared, flicking the holo on to life. When he saw Peter’s panicked face taking up the entire screen, he turned to Kraglin with narrowed eyes. “Get. Out.”

Kraglin did not need to be told twice.

“What’cha need, boy? Come snivelin’ back to me yet?”

“I am pretty close to considering that option, yeah,” Peter said weakly.

Yondu stopped. Peter wasn’t joking. His hair was a mess; he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Well, fuck me, boy. What kinda mess do I need to dig ya out of?” Peter held up a data pad to the camera on his end. Yondu squinted his eyes as he realized just how much a mess he would have to help them with. It was a sobering reminder that Peter had gone full-blown straight-and-narrow.

“All right, first thing’s first, boy. You better calm the hell down and get yourself something caffeinated. I’ll dig up some old docs where I can. Gather your crew and we’ll do this together.” Yondu slumped in his chair and sighed, switching to channel one for internal communications. “Kraglin’s in charge until further notice,” Yondu boomed into the comms system. “I’m going to have one hell of a night. First asshole who can get me a proper drink and scram gets and extra helping of slop at dinner. Dis-missed!”

* * *

Krena hated the 16th of Hranat. It was the first working day after the 14th of Hranat, which meant she and the rest of the internal revenue services of Xandar had to begin processing millions of tax documents. And she had absentee paperwork. This had the advantage of being digital, all checkboxes and properly labeled numeric amounts through some computer system, but had the negative distinction of being the tax paperwork of bounty hunters, miners, or other offworlders with very, very odd pay scales and tax codes. Some were an easy click of the check box, move on, but the very first hit in her list was going to take her at least until lunch to process, if not later. At least ten manual check flags adorned the first page alone.

Krena sighed, poured herself a tall mug of caffeinated pico juice, and began reading.

MANUAL FLAG #1:

NEW TAXPAYER

_Okay, this one is easy. We just need to make a new file based on this person’s social security number._

MANUAL FLAG #2:

NO SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER ISSUED

_Nevermind. Let’s start by issuing the payer a social, then, shall we?_

Krena pressed her comms to connect to the social security issuance department, and was soundly placed on hold for twenty-seven minutes.

This was not going to take her until lunch to process. This was probably going to take her all day.

**If she was lucky.**

Forty-two minutes later, Krena had in her possession a social security number and temporary card for a mister Peter Jason Quill, of Terra. _Terra?_ Oh, dear, that’s going to be three more calls and at least seven supplementary files to read through, and Krena clicked through the rest of the document. At least they were all there. Trying to contact an offworlder at a ‘reasonable hour’ was no easy task.

And then she spied the dependency paperwork.

Not for one dependent under the age of seventeen, Xandar’s legal age of adulthood, but two. One Rocket Quill, adopted, age 9.2 years, and one Groot Quill, adopted, aged 0.5 years.

Time to call the social office again to issue two more numbers, and then off to child services to confirm the ages of the dependents, set up a visitation confirmation, and proper residency/citizenship paperwork (the supplemental listed both as adopted without consent of biological parents with just cause due to prior parental/guardian abuse), with the necessary writs from character witnesses.

 _Nova Prime herself was a character witness?_ Trying to call her for confirmation was going to be a nightmare.

Forget today, Krena would be lucky if she finished filing Peter’s taxes within the month.


	17. Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Milano is rebuilt, Peter discovered he's allergic to it. Or something on it, at least.

[16] Worth

Peter woke up a sniveling mess. The first ‘night’ had just passed on his brand new ship and he was barely sane to enjoy it. His eyes were drippy, his nose was running, and he had a horrible scratchy feeling burning down the back of his throat. Worst of all, the had four other people on his ship that he could potentially make sick, and if he remembered anything from his time on the Excelsior with the Ravagers it was that one species’ cold was another’s fatal illness. Groot was likely safe to whatever-he-had, but Drax, Gamora, and Rocket were all varying species of mammal.

Peter blew his nose loudly and tossed the used tissue in the incinerator chute. A hot shower would probably help. Before entering, he pressed the intercom system at his doorway to broadcast to the rest of the ship.

“Guys, steer clear of me, alright? I picked up something, and I’m sick. It’s not too bad for me, just leaking and a dry throat, but it may be something nasty for one of you. So, until I know what I’m dealing with, keep your contact with me to a minimum. I’m showering and then locking my cabin off from the rest of the air supply. If any of you have experience with a medbay, now might be a good time to take the one Nova just installed for us for a test drive. Just wear a hazmat suit, please an-a-a-ACHOOOO!-and thank you.”

Releasing the call button, Peter moved quickly to the shower room, and threw his clothes off and into the pneumatic tube that would clean them. That, more than any of the other changes to his ship (even moreso than the large private cabins- after all, as a Ravager, privacy wasn’t exactly a thing) was his most appreciated feature. The system knew what materials their garment were made of, cleaned then properly, then shot them back up to their own rooms when done. Peter Lazy Quill would never have to do laundry again.

The hot shower helped immensely and Peter almost felt like he had dreamt feeling terrible. However, the minute he was back out in the hallway, the sniffling returned full-force.

Peter realized he wasn’t sick; he couldn’t be when it came and went that quickly. He was allergic to something on the ship. He went back to his own cabin, separated the air supply, and waited half an hour for it to run though the scrubbers and cycle. His symptoms dissipated soon after. He was allergic to something, and it wasn’t in his room. They’d rebuilt the ship with the same materials as he’d had before, and if it were the new adhesives, he’d still feel terrible even with his air supply separated ad they’d be on the whole ship.

The only thing Quill could think of that was new was the food Nova had stocked them with, or maybe some natural fiber blankets? There were testing and chemical kits in the medbay, but that wasn’t really Quill’s specialty.

He pressed the intercom again.

“Okay, correction, guys. I’m probably allergic to something on the ship, my only guess is it’s a food item- cutting the air and scrubbing it stopped the gross. Before we just toss all the free stuff we got, I’d like a hand running an allergen test. I’m not sick, and I’m not going to make anyone else ill. I **_think_**.”

“I am aware on how to run such a test. Please meet me there,’ came Drax’s plain reply.

Peter put on his mask this time as he left his cabin, and felt fine. Definitely allergies. He’d want to get to the bottom of this quick, his oxygen supply only lasted ninety minutes before a refill. He met Drax in the new medbay in the belly of the ship, sealed the airlock and scrubbed the air in the room before retracting his helmet, breathing in deeply.

“Nothing in here, either,” Peter said out loud.

“With your localized issues, I would also assume this to be an allergic reaction, Quill. I cannot think of anything else.”

“So, what do I do?”

“I am going to require you to salivate on a series of testing strips…”

* * *

 

Peter paced in the medbay as Drax continued to work, dipping and rubbing the strips he’d spit on with various chemical substances.

“You are not going to be pleased with the result, Peter,” Drax finally said.

“Why?”

“You are allergic to Rocket.”

Peter blinked a few times, confused. “How is that even a problem? I don’t run around kissing him, or anything!” Maybe he said that a little too defensively. I mean, it was one time, during last week while they were recovering on Xandar. And Peter was very, very drunk. “Also,” he added, “why is it a problem now?”

“I would assume that when we first met, he was sent through the delousing shower, same as myself?”

“The orange spray gunk they send you through? Yeah.”

“The ‘gunk’, as you so plainly called the orange liquid used in prisons, is intended to remove outside irritants and prevent bacterial or viral spread among prisoners. It possibly washed him clean of irritants. Soon after, we all raced to Knowhere, then Xandar, in quick succession, and the delousant was likely still effective. On Xandar, while they rebuilt your ship, we had private rooms and plenty of open air. Here, we are confined, and the particulate is eliciting an allergic reaction in you.”

Rocket and Gamora, sitting just outside the medbay, listened in silence. Rocket didn’t even wait to hear Drax’s suggestions to Peter; he’d already scurried off to his cabin to pack up what meager belongings he had.

* * *

Peter banged on Rocket’s locked cabin door, as soon as he and Drax had finished taking. Gamora had alerted him to Rocket’s behavior, and Peter raced to the cabins to get Rocket straightened out before he did something horribly stupid.

“ROCKET. OUT. IN. THE. HALLWAY. NOW.”

Realizing that an empty threat wouldn’t do much good against the smartest member of the team, Peter added, plainly, “I have Groot here. Come out.”

“You’re just gonna send me away,” Rocket said, whining into the door.

“Rocket,” Gamora started, but Peter put up a hand to speak instead.

“Rocket, you’re the smartest one of us on the team by a long shot. Next time you’re going to eavesdrop, follow rule number one of gathering information: don’t take just half a story. I’m not sending you anywhere. Now can you come out here so we can discuss this like _people_?” Peter couldn’t stress the word hard enough.

Rocket slid open the doorway and saw Peter in his pajamas with his mask still on, Gamora with her arms crossed, and Drax sitting down in the hallway opposite his door, cradling Groots pot in the crook of his elbow.

“You’re going to have to eat, though,” Rocket said, between what as absolutely, under no circumstances, sobs. “You won’t be able to take that thing off, ever.”

“Not if you don’t work with me,” Peter replied.

“There is no such thing as a fur allergy, unlike what many people believe,” Drax said, staring straight ahead. “People allergic to furred animals are allergic to the proteins in their urine and saliva. You are sentient enough to know how to use a latrine, which takes care of the first issue. And I assume you clean yourself the way most furred creatures do.”

“By lickin’ myself,” Rocket said. “Isn’t that how we all clean up, aside washing hands or sommat?”

“You know, you could always take a bath or a shower,” Peter said. “And I’ll take an antihistamine before meals.”

“You take showers regularly?” Rocket said, cocking an eyebrow. “I thought it was just a prison thing. Meant to be demeaning. Or for an emergency when you got something poisonous on ya.” Rocket shivered at the thought, his tail stiffening, fur puffing out.

“Do you know how to take a bath?” Gamora asked.

“I don’t even know what that is,” Rocket replied, somehow suddenly embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t describe.

“Do you like to swim?” Peter asked.

“So long as the water ain’t freezin’ or anything, sure. What does this have to do with me not turnin’ ya into a snivelin’ mess?”

Peter smiled (though, with his mask on, nobody knew the devil of a grin he was producing), grabbed one of Rocket’s paws, and dragged him towards the head in the aft of the ship. “I have the **_best_** smelling shampoo, man. You’re going to score all the ladies.”

Rocket turned his head back at Drax, Gamora, and Groot, with pleading eyes. Groot chirped happily.

Whatever this bath thing was, Rocket knew he was not going to like it.

* * *

 

Okay, Rocket thought as he exited the tub, Peter already at the ready with a giant fluffy towel, he could renegotiate his stance on baths. Even if it meant help from somebody else, because anticorrosive oil needed to be applied to his implants, and his back, which he could reach easily with his long snout, was unreachable with his paws; he simply couldn’t wash it. Having shampoo gently rubbed in his fur was better than being scratched by Groot, although it would take quite a bit of alcohol in his system before he’d admit it.

Even after Groot grew large enough, Peter still helped bathe Rocket. It was a very real reminder that Peter wasn’t letting Rocket go anywhere, allergies be damned.


	18. Crybaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's been seriously injured after a recent job, and Rocket thinks he can help. It goes as well as you'd expect… horribly, horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END IS NEAR! This chapter puts this anthology at over 40,000 words (not including titles or author’s notes; 40,000 words of story only)  
> Several people have requested a Peter-retaliates-against-Rocket-after-the-broken-hip fic, and I aim to please. It was always intended as a two parter, and I’m warning you this chapter is a) really long (comparatively speaking) and b) not what you expect (unless you have a mind jack on me, in which case weeeeeeird).  
> This story is in the same cannon as:  
> Fix-it Felix  
> This is Why I Hate the Vet  
> Here’s Looking at You, Kid  
> and  
> One Rocket, In a Box, As Ordered  
> in that order, with this one as it’s conclusion. I will probably clean these five stories up and package them as a single fic in chronological order with some additions to them (I have a unique take on the Rocket origin story that would be included as well as some Rocket/Gamora augmentation stuff).  
> Thoughts?

# 

[17] Crybaby

Peter was an utter mess. His hair had been singed, he was missing an eyebrow, his left shoulder was dislocated, and he was covered in bruises, scrapes, and utter soreness. Drax had him in a headlock to keep him from moving while Gamora attempted to put his arm back where it belonged, but even after the ‘pop’ was heard around the flight deck, Peter looked miserable.

“Do we still have some of those painkillers we used on Rocket when we broke his hip?” Peter asked wearily. “I could use eight hours of being conked out.”

“Yes, but they’re probably not of use to you. They actually work in conjunction with class 5, 6, or 7 cybernetics to produce a sleep aid and muscle relaxer. On someone Rocket’s size, a total knockout. Me? A nice numb. You or Drax? Nothing,” Gamora replied. “I can work with Drax to make a mild sedative and muscle relaxer with the bark peelings Groot’s left me, but it will take an hour or so. Just sit for now.”

“Uuuugh,” Peter groaned.

“I would offer a massage,” Drax said, looking up as he locked their weaponry in the front cabinet, “but you are far too bruised. When you stop hemorrhaging internally, let me know.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy.”

Rocket was a bit jealous. Drax, for someone that large, had an incredibly precise hand. If Rocket asked, Drax was happy to offer a massage or a chiropractic-like strike to the back to knock out a painful knot, but Rocket was still uncomfortable in undressing in front of the others- and Drax would need to see his exposed back to not accidentally break an implant.

“Think I have something that could help,” Rocket said, after a few more moments of Peter’s loud whining. “Lemme grab it.”

“I swear, right now I’m this close to asking for a concussion.” Peter sighed, and Rocket returned with a very large gun-like object in his hands. Large even by Peter’s standards. “Whoa, wait, no, I take that back.”

“You wanted to be put out of your misery, didn’t ya?” Rocket said, cocking the weapon, laughing a little.

“Not LITERALLY!”

“Relax, twinkle toes,” Rocket added, smirking. “It’s the new stun gun Nova asked me to build. No pain, controlled electrical charge, complete sedation for anyone in the 75 to 450 pound range. You want a good night’s sleep, this’ll give it and then some. Not like a Taser- avoids vitals entirely. I’d still use the bathroom and lie down first, unless you accidentally want to piss yourself or break your nose when you fall over.”

“Is it safe?” Peter said, after a moment of mulling it over. He really would try anything at this point.

“Tested on Xandarians, Skrull, and Badoon already. Totally fine. Nova just sent it back because it’s too big for their guys to carry. Wusses. Have to design a smaller model for mass production.”

“What the hell,” Peter finally said, poking at a bruise that made a massive lump on his forearm. “Fine. Can’t be worse than this.”

Peter did as he was told, interspersed with as much loud annoyance as possible. Eventually, he had his shirt off and in his hands, tossing it weakly into his hamper, and Rocket and Drax (who had been helping him walk through the ship’s passages) noticed just how badly Peter had really been hurt. Rocket didn’t want to admit that if he looked like that after a fight, obnoxious whining would be the least he’d do.

“This was worse than expected. You really should be resting for a while, friend,” Drax said, scooping up Peter from under his legs and rolling him gently into the bunk. “Leave us the operations of the vessel for a day or two. You need to relax.”

“You’d still be nervous if your best option for painkillers is to be shot.”

“Just close your eyes. I’ll give you another dose in twelve hours if it helps,” Rocket said, noticeably less jerkish than usual. He raised the massive gun, pointing at Peter. “Night-night, A-hole.”

* * *

 

“Gyaaaaaaaaaaah!” came a loud, high-pitched scream from the lower berth around nine hours later. Peter.

“ _Shit_ ,” Rocket thought to himself. “Time to give him another headshot.” Rocket lifted the weapon from the foot of his berth, carefully tiptoeing around Groot, seated sedately on the floor. Groot didn’t sleep, per se, but he did go into a trance like state on occasion, and was a beast to contend with if roused.

Gamora had beaten Rocket to Peter’s bunk, and stood in the doorway, hand on her hip. Rocket was not expecting what came next.

“I don’t feel so good,” Peter whined, and Rocket heard a slight delay in his speech from when the words escaped his lips, which didn’t match the sounds he was making. “Aunt Jess, can I please have some water?” Peter wasn’t speaking in Xandarian, which Rocket understood and the translation implant in his left ear didn’t need to translate. Peter must have been speaking in his language from home.

“Are you well, Peter? I can fetch you a drink,” Gamora replied.

“Hee, you sound funny. You said fetch, like a dog,” Peter said, smiling from his bunk. His arm was draped over his eyes and his hair was still standing on end from the static.

“Hey jerkface, I came to give you another shot,” Rocket said, “but I think you should wake up and move around a bit first.”

“Shot? Am I sick? Is this a hospital? It doesn’t feel like my bed. Also, that was really mean. You shouldn’t say mean things to people, sir.”

Sir. Peter called Rocket **_‘sir’_**. What the heck was going on here?

“Hey, Pete, do me a favor and open your eyes. Sit up, too.”

“Everything hurts, sir. I… I remember getting beat up pretty bad yesterday,” Peter replied, shakily.

‘At least Peter remembers that,’ Rocket thought. ‘Probably thinks he’s back on Terra or something, but it looks like he’ll be back to himself soon enough.’ That was a relief.

“Tell me what you remember, then, Pete.”

“Uh… so there were these kids down by the river… they were killing frogs…”

Shit. Rocket remembered this story. Peter said that was the start of the day when he’d been abducted from Earth, as a child.

Except, something didn’t really feel right. When Rocket got turned back into a child- i.e., when his implants actually shut down temporarily, taking his sentient brain with him- he originally thrashed and screamed. It sucked that he always remembered it afterwards, but he’d managed to work up some routines with Groot to memorize basic stress relief even in his wild state. Now, he’d only thrash immediately upon wake, and Groot would hold him in a way that would make him sleep it off until the cybernetics came back online. Even his animal brain was starting to recognize Peter and Gamora as safe, and he (or feral-he, as he didn’t fully acknowledge that him without cybernetics was the same person) had actually sat pretty respectfully in Peter’s lap for a half hour during the most recent shortout, probably from all the time his body had been pet by Peter when Gamora and his data got scrambled. Even his body was beginning to recognize their scents as family, even when his data banks were off. _Brothers and sisters_ , his feral brain had categorized, in not so many words.

As far as he knew, however, Peter had never had amnesia, or something like it, before. And he wasn’t in hysterics- he seemed pretty calm about the whole ordeal other than being in pain from the fight they’d had the day before.

He wasn’t pranking Rocket back, was he? There’s no way his stun gun could have given Peter amnesia. **That would be stupid.**

Rocket rubbed his left eye. Secretly, he was turning on his recording feed. If Peter was going to play dumb (er, dumber than usual), Rocket wanted blackmail material. Or at least something to send to the Ravagers. Yondu would probably laugh his ass clean off.

“Pete, you wanna open your eyes for me?” Rocket asked again, slightly incredulously.

“Yessir,” Peter said, slowly moving his arm. “My arm’s so heavy, though. Sorry, sir,” Peter said as he sloughed his arm off his forehead and rolled to face Rocket.

“WHOAH!” he screamed. “You’re a RACCOON!” His eyes were bigger than dinner plates.  Screw the Ravagers, Rocket was sending this straight to Dey. His little daughter would get a kick out of it and Rocket knew how much Peter loved visiting the kid when they made trips back to Xandar.

Rocket raised a fuzzy eyebrow as Gamora returned to Peter’s bunk with a canteen.

“Wow, ma’am, are you my nurse? You’re super pretty,” Peter said, without a hint of choking on laughter. He sounded oddly… sincere. ‘ _Sincere for a con man_ ,’ Rocket thought.

“Where am I?” Peter asked innocently.

Rocket looked behind him to Gamora, who gave him a look. The _I-think-you-blew-something-up-that-you-shouldn’t-have_ look. Rocket did something he rarely did when he wasn’t offline. He used his raccoon voice. “Think he’s pranking us back, Greenie,” Rocket squawked out in a register he knew was beyond most bipedal range. Thankfully, his overclocking of Gamora’s implants to be able to hear Groot after their data swap meant she could hear it just fine.

Gamora shrugged. She could understand, but not respond, without Peter being able to hear as well.

Peter’s eyes, despite the fact it didn’t seem possible, grew wider.

“You really are a raccoon! Talking! Wooooooo…” Peter said, cutting himself off. “Uh, is this my voice? What happened, Doctor Raccoon, sir? Or, uh, Doctor Sir.”

Okay. _Two could play this game_. Rocket wanted to see how far Peter would take it. Peter wasn’t a half-bad actor by any stretch, way better than Rocket, other than Rocket’s ability to act like an animal (mostly because he was wired to, so it was less acting and more… remembering), but Groot could play straight-man to outshine the best. And while Rocket wasn’t the best actor, he could certainly smell a con a mile away.

This reeked of setup. Peter was using the fact that it was kinda-maybe-sorta plausible for his brain to have been fried as a way to prank Rocket back.

“You’re in your bed. In your bunk. In your cabin On,” Rocket said, punctuating for emphasis, “ _your spaceship_.”

“In space,” Gamora said, catching on.

“You’re lying,” Peter said, pouting a little. “I know you’re trying to be nice and all, but I think I’ll stay here. Whoa, wait,” he added, as he tried rolling himself away from Gamora and Rocket. I’m big. Like really big.”

Silence. With Peter rolled to the wall, Gamora and Rocket looked at each other frowning.

“I say we ask him a few questions while we stick ‘m in the brain scan,” Rocket chirped to Gamora. “I wanna see if he’s fooling with us, and in the minute chance he ain’t, which I doubt, but I’d rather cover my ass, I wanna see what happened to him. No way Peter can fool the scanner we just set up in the medbay.”

Gamora nodded. After the large sum of money they’d received after pinpointing the cybernetics theft ring (they had, indeed, had a surgeon-mole implant tracking devices on their marks as Rocket had assumed- a tracking device he willingly kept inside himself after recoding it to only respond to their biometrically locked comms devices. Also, it meant he wouldn’t have to go under again to have it removed.), they’d installed a large number of modifications to the Milano- better weaponry for themselves and the ship, a more effective heating and coolant system, a proper theater/library, a more secure brig, and everyone’s favorite addition (that wasn’t the coffee maker, because Rocket couldn’t use it)- the upgraded medbay.

While they were out of painkillers at the moment (seriously, they needed to make a group fund jar for how fast they depleted), the medbay was stocked with a Hamada hospital-grade medical scanner, brainscan/EEG combo, skin and blood replacers, and even medical supplies that could work on Rocket. Gamora did most of the patching up on Drax, Rocket, and Peter, Drax made herbal salves when their clinical ones ran out, Rocket handled Gamora’s cybernetics, and his own where he could, and Peter had discovered an alternative use for their EEG the previous week- it made for an excellent lie detector. Rocket still liked his use better- mainly, helping him figure out what sleeping positions and sounds helped prevent him from getting nightmares. But, you know, being able to rattle criminals and get them to talk without getting into overly violent (and more legal) means _could_ be fun, too.

Rocket would just omit the part from their last report when he held onto the ceiling fixture with his back paws, swinging wildly from it, (stun) guns akimbo, while yelling at their captor, “DON’T LIE TO ME, YOU D’AST IDJIT. TELL ME WHO SET YOU UP TO THIIIIIS!”

Using it on Peter would be pretty simple. Hook him up, ask some questions, and see what parts of the brain lit up like the dashboard alarms during an ion storm.

Gamora excused herself to go find Drax and set up the EEG, while Rocket stayed and kept Peter company/continued rolling video for potential blackmail. Rocket scooted himself up on the bed alongside Peter. Playacting or not, Rocket was still concerned about the bruising he’d seen covering Peter the day before.

Rocket reached over to carefully examine Peter’s closest arm, when Peter whimpered and scooted further back into his bunk.

“Sorry, mister,” Peter said, weakly. Rocket knew from yesterday that, even if Peter was being a complete faker (which he totally was, no two ways about it), the pain in his voice was very, very real. “Momma said not to get too close to raccoons. They bite. Do you bite, mister?”

“Only the bad guys, Peter,” Rocket said, drawing back his lips and displaying far too much of his sharp fangs for anyone’s pleasure.

Peter frowned, and slowly heaved upright. “I’m too tall,” he mumbled. “And I’m ooooold.”

“Hah, you ain’t the oldest one on this ship by a long shot. Look, can I please take a good look at you? You got pretty messed up yesterday.”

Peter obliged, slowly sitting himself up on the bed as Rocket tentatively moved closer to get a good look at the bruising. It looked way worse than yesterday, as the blood pooled up under the skin. Rocket lifted Peter’s right arm at the wrist, turning the limb carefully in his hands to see everything, mindful of his own claws to not add any more injuries to Peter’s battered body.

“How come your mouth doesn’t match up with your words, mister? It looks like I’m watching Speed Racer,” Peter said, breaking the silence of Rocket’s attention to Peter’s sorry state.

“Translator chip,” Rocket replied, not even looking up from peeking down Peter’s shirt at his back, which was far less severe than he expected, although that wasn’t saying much. Rocket touched the tiniest of scars on the back of his neck, just around Peter’s hairline. “Yours is in here, somewheres,” Rocket explained, tracing the thin line with the smooth backside of his nail. “Mine’s inside my left ear. It plays the inverse sound waves of what you hear at the same time it translates, so you don’t hear double. Of course, languages all make different mouth movements, so ya end up seeing a bad synchronization most of the time. ‘Cept with me,” Rocket added, peeking out around Peter’s side, about to tell him something he’d never actually shared with anyone else before, not even Groot. “I move my mouth ‘cause it freaks people out otherwise. My voice is actually totally robotic.”

“No way, you’re a robot?”

“Eh, sort of? More like a cyborg,” Rocket said, hopping off the bunk and snatching up the canteen. He started chugging on the water, and continued to speak, without any muffles or disruption. “’S a great party trick,” he said, with perfect clarity. Or, well, perfect clarity for word-slurring Rocket. “I can take the chip out, too, and stash it somewheres. ‘S tied directly to my brain.”

“There’s string running inside you?”

Rocket scrunched up his muzzle in momentary confusion. How long was Peter going to drag this stupid joke out, anyway? The EEG would rat him out soon enough. “ ** _Metaphor_** ,” Rocket sighed, as if he were explaining something linguistic to Drax. “Eh, anyway. Gamora went to set up a machine that’s going to see what’s wrong with ya, but it might take some time to prep. Hungry?”

“Yeah. ‘N dizzy and tired too. Can I go back to sleep? This is a really, really weird dream. I’m pretty sure I’m sitting in the hospital lobby, and Grampa’s going to come by and shake me awake any minute now.”

“I’ll, I’ll go get you some food,” Rocket replied, whiskers falling. He was still convinced Peter was pulling his leg, something at the back of him was almost demanding that to be the explanation. Rocket only faked it to earn a literal ton of money…. what would Peter even gain from dragging this out so long?

Rocket simply shook his head and scurried off to the galley to find or make something he knew Peter liked.

* * *

 

When Rocket returned, Peter was snoring pretty soundly. He didn’t really want to wake him, but Peter hadn’t eaten anything in at least eighteen hours.

“Grilled cheese,” Rocket said, as he tapped his side. “Groot made it, and if you won’t eat it, I’m takin’, cause I’m droolin’ over here.”

“Groot?”

“Yeah, Groot. And eat before it gets cold,” Rocket said, shoving the plate closer to his face.

“Eeew. The bread is red,” Peter replied, wrinking his nose. “I thought I was gonna wake up and see Mom, not be back here.”

This was a curiosity to Rocket. “What color is bread supposed to be, then?”

“Uhhh… White. Or brown if it’s the stuff Mom got from the Jewish deli. Yellowy if it’s a potato roll. Not red.”

“Is it the same red as your jacket?” Rocket said, trying out a shibboleth. This would be a way for Rocket to catch Peter in a lie.

“My jacket’s blue,” Peter responded. “Or I guess I don’t have it at all. I’m way to big to wear my jacket in my dream, aren’t I?” That came out way too fast for Peter to have thought through how to respond.

“Well, I can’t see red, so I wouldn’t know the difference anyway,” Rocket said, a bit deflated.

“You can’t?” Peter asked, as he closed his eyes and smelled the sandwich before letting himself wolf it down. “Mfh… zis is goodh,” he squawked out with food in his mouth. “I know this is a dream. This tastes like mom’s sandwiches. Why would there be grilled cheese in space? That’s stupid. Astronauts eat freeze-dried ice cream from little silver pouches. And Tang.”

“I can’t see red. Stuff people say is red just looks like brown to me,” Rocket responded. He sighed, leaning against Peter’s bunk. At this point, the only thing that kept him humoring Peter’s stupid fantasy was Peter’s bruising. Even if he weren’t faking (which he was, thank you very much), the team always came to the aid of a comrade in pain, be it Groot’s need to be hand-fed when his limbs got hacked off (again!), Rocket’s occasional animalistic reversions (or occasional whimpering needs for physical contact), or Gamora’s ‘time of the month’ (aka, get the frozen chocolate slush, and for the love of Odin, Peter, please remember to buy some tampons). Drax was the rare exception; he wasn’t functionally immortal like Groot, but they’d yet to see him ill our out-of-form. Something told Rocket that when it happened it would be hell for not just the residents of the Milano, but at least three neighboring star systems as well.

“We have macaroni and cheese in space too, now, thanks to ya,” Rocket finally said, breaking the silence as Peter inhaled the last triangle of his sandwich, eyes open now.

“I brought mac n’ cheese to space?” Peter asked incredulously.

“And tater tots, ice cream, ‘n waffles. Thank Odin-on-high for waffles ‘n ice cream together, because, and I cannot believe I’m actually admittin’ this, that combination of food brings my mind to a higher state of bein’. You have shown me the universe in the form of pressed griddle bladder and frozen mammary fluid mixed with sugars.” Peter made a face, a scrunched up look of displeasure, at Rocket’s quite vivid description. “Also that thing ya make with queeba eggs ‘n cheese ‘n sausage scrap on round toast.”

“Eggs and cheese and sausage on round toast? You’re thanking me for an Egg McMuffin?” Peter asked skeptically.

“Peter, I will grovel at your feet for the freakin’ Egg McMuffin.”

Peter looked at him quizzically. “But, you can buy one for less than a dollar. Like everywhere. Wait… they don’t have McDonald’s in space?” He suddenly looked horrified.

Before Rocket could even attempt a reply to that query (seriously, his face looked just like Groot’s when he lost a bet on the lizard-eating races, which was, at this point, too often for Groot to still make that look of abject horror), Gamora and Drax slid open Peter’s bulkhead door.

“Come on, sweetie,” Gamora said, kindly. **_Sweetie_** … ugh, no. Gamora couldn’t possibly believe Peter’d been tazed hard enough to regress twenty-six years, could she? “We’re just going to run a few scans on you okay?”

“Okay, ma’am,” came Peter’s reply. Drax looked surprised, but before he could speak, Gamora elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be,” Gamora added, clearly addressing Drax. Rocket wasn’t sure if Gamora was in on this stunt with Drax or trying to keep Drax from opening his big mouth and scare what they all thought was the mind of a small child trapped inside their Peter. Rocket prayed to any deity within earshot (hell, he’d even accept a Celestial at this point) that it was the former.

“Peter, can you walk?”

Peter looked glum. “Don’t think so, ma’am. Still hurts. And my legs are too big.”

Groot, can you bring him to the medbay?” Gamora asked, turning her head away from the door. Groot shuffled in past, and carefully lifted Peter in a fireman’s carry.

“Whoooooaaaaah,” was Peter’s only reply. Rocket couldn’t blame him. Of the four, Rocket looked like an animal back on Peter’s homeworld, and Gamora and Drax were ‘human enough’. Only Groot of their group was truly alien.

Rocket scrambled up on Groot’s shoulder, looking down at Peter as Groot carefully ambled to the medbay where Gamora and Drax were likely already waiting.

* * *

 

Groot sat Peter at the foot of the EEG, and Gamora began attaching the needed wires with sticky pads around Peter’s head

“Itchy,” Peter grumbled, reaching up to scratch. Gamora caught his hand.

“Careful. You can scratch if you must, just don’t peel off the equipment, Peter,” she chided.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Peter, I am going to ask for you to lay down. If you’re cold, tell me and I will procure a blanket for you,” Drax said, as he flicked the machine to life. Of Course Drax the Dad was surfacing.

“Yes, please, sir,” Peter replied. Drax positively beamed. Now Rocket knew Peter was ‘praking’? the team (or maybe just Rocket himself), but the EEG didn’t lie. Any moment now, Peter would flash his trademarked grin and yell “Gotcha!” to Rocket. Any minute.

Because if he didn’t, Rocket really didn’t know what he’d do. Teach Peter how to be an adult? Hah, okay, that would be funny. For starters, Peter was three times his age. Rocket couldn’t imagine being the more mature one of the pair. Smarter, sure, but not more mature.

“Okay, let’s start with some easy questions for calibration. Drax?” Gamora asked.

“What is your name? Your full name, please” Drax asked Peter.

“Peter Jason Quill?” Peter responded, half as a question. The readouts looked good. A bit nervous, of course, but that was to be expected.

“What is the date of your birth?”

“July 10th, 1981.” Still not lying. Rocket laughed at the date, wondering how often Terrans cycled through their calendars that the year would not have reached two-thousand.

“Where were you born?”

“Colorado. Grew up in Alabama, though. Mom and Grandpa moved there after the neighbors started talking behind her back, she said.” Still clear. Rocket saw a map of Peter’s home, once. His mother really traveled that far on their planet just to escape neighbors? How bad could it have been?

“Your favorite piece of music?” Gamora cut in.

“Fooled Around and… no, probably Hooked o a Feelin’ by Blue Suede,” Rocket noted the faltering readouts, mostly due to Peter’s conflicted emotions as he racked his mind for his absolute favorite song. Rocket saw Peter still scratching away, but he wasn’t dislodging the pads, so it should be fine.

“Your long term memory seems to be intact,” Gamora said. Let’s start working our way more recently. I’m going to describe some people you probably know, and when you figured out who they re, give me their name. If you know who they are but can’t name them, tell me something about them that I didn’t say. Okay?”

Peter scratched his head again, slumping. “Okay. Who’s first?”

“Tell me who took you in after you were abducted. He is blue skinned. Whistles quite often,” Gamora said. I watched the readouts. Language centers were engaged, Peter’s mind racing but the temporal lobe wasn’t lighting up as it should. _Peter honestly couldn’t remember_. The readout said more than Peter’s panicked face ever could.

He couldn’t lie his way out of this. Rocket saw the cables set up themselves, and he knew the device couldn’t fake a prerecorded reading or play a holo or video recording. This was live, inside of Quill’s mind.

He had honest-to-Odin amnesia, and it was very probably Rocket’s fault. Rocket’s whole body bristled, as Peter started crying. “I… I… I dunno! Give me another one, ma’am, please,” he said, sniffles going down his face. “I wanna go **_home_**.”

Drax made a noise that Rocket was sure was some combination of a squeak and the sound of his heart shattering in two, literal or otherwise. Groot slumped to the floor. He knew that humanoids couldn’t just regrow.

“Okay, one more,” Gamora said, her face turned towards Peter, with her back to Groot, Rocket, and Drax at the display.

“Yes please, miss,” Peter said between sobs.

“I will pick a very recent one, then. The man who received your dick message. The one to whom you promised you would watch over us.”

Again, the same. Peter could not recall who the person was. Peter could not act over an EEG.

“I… I dunno,” he finally sputtered, but the answer was already obvious.

Rocket did the first sensible thing; he reached up to rub his eye and stop the feed, deleting the recording of the morning.

Peter looked down at Drax, Groot and Rocket, all three of whom were now slumped on the floor in shock.

And he smirked.

“How’s it feel, assholes?” he asked weakly, still obviously in pain.

Rocket was on him in a flash of blue flight suit and furred fury.

“WHAT THE FLYING FUCK, QUILL.” Rocket raged, as restrained as possible knowing that Peter was still in shitty shape.

“You proved a point in the hospital. You showed me just how brave you could be. Now it was my turn to retaliate on you,” he said, wearily. “Look, you can pummel me all you want when I’m better, but right now I’d actually appreciate another shot in the face with that tranq gun of yours. It did help. You can even do it before I use the bathroom, if wetting myself will make you feel any better.”

Rocket looked Quill in the eye and loosened his grip on Peter’s sleeping shirt, holding it only enough for balance as he stood on Peter’s lap. He breathed a long sigh of relief and shook his head.

“I am Groot,” Groot interjected, as he pulled himself off the floor.

“Yeah, Quill, how’dja do it?” Rocket translated, looking up to face Quill in the eye.

“I wasn’t scratching because I was itchy. I was disabling my translator. Gamora turned to face me square and asked me the ID questions in Whoberi, and everything else in Kree. I actually speak Kree. I don’t speak Whoberi.”

“So you just strained to make sense of the words, and that’s what the machine picked up,” Rocket said.

“Groot’s your accomplice. Gamora was mine, “ Peter replied, carefully peeling off the sticky pads.

“Just keep in mind two things, guys,” Peter said, addressing Drax, Groot, and Rocket. “We live and die by our tech out here. Some of us more than others- **_Rocket_** , **_Gamora_**. But our tech’s a tool, and tools can be manipulated for other uses. Like your gun for pain; which, I may suggest, if it isn’t being patented, might be worth for us selling to hospital care as well. And this machine, which turned Rocket, who was the last among the three of you, to finally believing my crappy sctick.”

“Also, Groot, no offense, Rocket’s grilled cheeses are way better than yours are.”

Groot emitted a high pitched shriek and held up his airms, storming out of the medbay in a fit. Both Rocket and Peter couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“All right, asshole, you win,” Rocket said, as he hopped off Peter and onto the floor. Let’s get you back for some bedrest. When you’re well, you owe me.”

“I will require you to do my cleaning for at least a week,” Drax said, as he picked up Peter and slung him over a shoulder. **After** you are well, of course. Your preformace was actually quite impressive, but I believe you stopped my pulmonary functions and that requires retribution in kind.”

From down the hall, a sulky, screeching “I am **Groot**!”


	19. Remember Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drax always missed being a father. Rocket never had one, not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the prompt to follow, Pharm! Also, everyone say hello to Pharm (hello Pharm!) who will be taking up the mantle as my beta writer, because blindness stinks and having a pair of eyes tell me how many typos slipped into my work will be an asset for all.
> 
> This is the penultimate story, only one more chapter after this. Doesn't mean I'll stop writing, of course! I'm going back to individual one-shots and my crazy-long Rocket-centric puzzle fic The Hunt that you should totally catch up on because a new chapter will be out by the end of next week.

[18] Remember Them

I don't exactly remember when we started doing charity events? It was a few weeks after Quill's birthday, so it was maybe six months ago at this point. It was Groot's and Drax's idea, and damn me if I don't humor the big guy. Well, both the big guys. Drax and I don't really have a friendship the way I do with Gamora or Peter (and Groot's his own category, thank you), but we do have an  _understanding_. He and I both feel a need for the warmth of others; somewhere hazy, in the far, far back of my mind, I can almost remember a squirming pile of Others, fat, greyish-brown little runts and myself flailing over each other for warmth as a much larger one (momma?) curled us close, carding through my fur with her nails, licking me clean.

I'll never say it aloud, but I really, really miss being held. And Drax much felt the same.

Neither of us could really talk to each other, not really. Groot may not speak in a way the others could understand, but he's witty, and sarcastic, and very much like myself, Peter, and Gamora. Except, you know, a tree.

Drax speaks in the way that everyone else thinks Groot does- obtuse, short sentences, without a hint of humor (or at least one detectable by me). He is part of our group, for certain, but we've all come to the conclusion that to be with him means to  **do**  things with him, not necessarily  **converse**  with him; Gamora spars with him, Peter cooks with him, Groot grows vegetables in the sunlamp-rigged terrarium with him. He certainly seems to prefer it to the first week on the ship when he felt like we couldn't really include him.

Drax and I didn't spar; I usually practiced fighting with Groot because he could take my clawing-and-biting style of physical combat without damage. We did cook together on occasion, or work in the terrarium. I never liked plants (except for one giant obvious exception), but after Groot did the stupidest thing in the universe, learning how to take care of seedlings and saplings did rise higher on my list of priorities. And learning from Drax, who'd I'd discovered to have once been a farmer, was better than my normal course of action, which was picking up a book or article off the 'net.

When Drax and I wanted to do something together- when we had the same midnight shift, or had to watch the Milano while the better three negotiators were off doing a trade (Peter the talker, Gamora the looker- both of the distraction and find-an-escape-route-if-things-went-sour varieties, and Groot the intimidator)- we read children's stories and fairy-tales. Drax had found some books of his people on the net, and I liked learning languages. Both of us turned off our oral translators, and Drax taught me to speak and read in his tongue.

It wasn't conversation of the witty biting sort, it was stories of fearless warrior princesses slaying the great black Moondragon, or children going on long journeys across dangerous lands of lava and ice. At first, he just read, and I sat, looking at the complex pictographs that constructed his written language, mentally parsing out mnemonics to remind myself what each one looked like and meant. Slowly, I began to understand.

Or, much to his surprise, quickly. I keep on forgetting just how good They made me.

We soon moved on to chapter books, and I kept noticing a striking trend; unlike the Terran stories I often saw Peter reading from his own tablet (the ones with the flashy color pictures and red metal superhero), these adventure books that Drax kept picking all had female leads.

It dawned on me that he was reading me the books he'd probably read to his daughter.

His people's sense of prose, even after I'd gained a near-native grasp of his language (that took, what, two weeks?), was unlike anything I'd heard before. It was flowery and descriptive, yet strangely utilitarian. It lacked metaphors, but did have some basic sense of comparison and simile. Moondragon, which showed up as a common motif all the way down to the original picture books we'd started on, still appeared as a common antagonist in the grade-school light chapter books, although in a far more sinister form. She wasn't dark as the night, she was the night, and when she tore mercilessly through villages and homes, it felt more real than all the metaphors used by authors I'd read before.

Drax knew I was an adult of mind, and due to the nature of my species, body as well, but I was still only seven years old.

Maybe it was because I never knew what it was like to be someone's kid, not really, or maybe it was because I knew Drax missed being a father. I was happy to indulge him, if only a little.

Which is why it hurt so much at these things.

The five of us were seated on folding chairs in an auditorium, or the three of us were; Groot sat cross-legged on the floor so his head was at roughly our heights, and I stood up, leaning into the chair back.

A few guardians and teachers milled in the back, and with my eyesight I could tell quite a few were trying to feign disinterest. Poorly, I would add- most of them were just as excited to see us as their kids were. We'd all take turns telling a sanitized version of our story, and some kind of moral if we could. Groot talked about being bullied back on X, which I dutifully translated. I usually just tag-teamed with Peter, talking about how we'd both been taken away from our families and had to learn how to live away from our families. Gamora talked about having sisters that weren't the same species as her, but were her sisters all the same. And Drax talked about what it meant to be a dad.

Peter would then jump up on his chair and tell a simplified version of how we met and fought Ronan, and then Gamora and I would each tell of a more recent exploit. This time, Gmora told them about the time she and I switched bodies, and reminded the kids in the audience to back up their hard drives on their computers and tablets regularly, doubly so if they had one inside them. I told them about the time my comms unit was broken, and the team thought I'd been kidnapped.

I needed to. Because when the questions-and-answers time came, Drax was always overlooked.

I told them how brave Drax had been, more so when he thought that they'd been scammed. How honest he was, when he and Peter, after discovering it was a mix up, and they ended up with a brand new engine that was supposed to go to Peter's adopted dad, decided to call him and give him the engine.

Drax never showed that he minded, he was the one who'd suggested talking to kids in the first place, and he knew his species often scared the Xandarian and Krylonian orphans we usually spoke to just as much as the adults at the occasional formal dinner Nova requested us sit in on (which, to be fair, most of the rich 'philanthropic' adults typically only talked with Peter or Gamora, but the Nova officers were nice enough for two rich racist old fogies each, plus free grub- the good kind).

"Thank you all," said the headmaster, as I finished the end of my tale, and actually sat in the chair. "So that we can get through as many questions as possible, we had all our students who had a question write them in advance. Each class picked someone to represent them and ask one question. How does this sound?"

Hah, so all the popular kids are going to ask questions of Peter, I thought. Or Groot. Somehow, he seems to be the most popular. The littlest ones tended to like me (plush toy or pet-analogue, I supposed), and the girls in midlevel education loved Gamora.

They started with the lowest level, and as per frickin' usual, one shocking-pink Krylonian boy piped up with a question for me. "What do you do when people think you're a pet?" he asked.

Well flip my lid. I'd never been asked that before. Then again, we were at some fancy scholarship school. These kids were way more perceptive than most.

"Uh, well… I'll be honest. For a long time, I used to get real mad at 'em. And I think that made most people think that I really was some kinda animal. I'd always traveled with Groot, here, long as I can remember, and 'cause he's a plant, I kinda forget all of us ARE animals of some kind. We can all get angry, or lonely, or enjoy stupid things, or want our hair ruffled or summat.

Now, if someone thinks I'm a pet and they're unimportant, I ignore 'em. If they're a shopkeeper, we vote with our wallet an' leave the store. If they're someone I need to actually deal with, like a new Nova officer, I sit down and I talk with 'em. If they're still gonna be a bigot, I bring it up to their boss and they either change or get fired," I added laughing. "There's always, always gonna be jerks out there, kid. Your skin's too pink, you're too short, you don't believe in the same gods I do... list goes on. Find the people what see you as people, and those who can't? Pardon my Kree on this one teachers, but it needs to be said… fuck those jerks."

I crossed my arms over my chest, and noticed one or two of the adults in the back shake their heads lightly, but no glares for my tongue, just applause. Some cheering from a trio of probably teenaged overly rowdy boys in the back row.

The questions continued- two for Groot, which I translated, another one for me about how they noticed how different I spoke when translating for Groot in interviews, two for Peter, one for Gamora, and six directed at the whole team.

As the final question- the trio of teenagers in the back asking Peter about finding a good technical school to learn spaceship repair (well, again, underestimating these guys, I'm impressed), finished getting answered- Groot took it for Peter, as he and I mostly just learned through observation- the headmaster stood up again to take the microphone.

"We would all like to thank you for your time, Peter, Drax, Gamora, Rocket, and Groot. Before we all say our thank-you's and goodbyes, two of our students here had a request for Drax, and I'd like to make a point of it for the school if that is okay."

Drax shifted uncomfortably in his chair. No-one ever addressed him and him alone. "What did you require?" he asked, his voice breaking a little.

The headmaster walked up on stage, gesturing if it was okay to stand next to Drax. "I know many of my students," she said, scanning the audience, "are frightened of you. In Xandarian and Krylonian culture both, tattoos are seen as something only prisoners and thieves bear."

Ah. That's where she was going with this. Drax realized she was going to make a 'different cultures speech' and softened his posture a little. He was okay with being made an example of in a situation like this.

"But for Drax's people, these tattoos mark a history," she said, lowering the microphone so her voice didn't boom through the whole auditorium. "I'd rather not do this for you, if you wouldn't mind," she added.

Drax took the microphone I'd held while translating for Groot, and began. "The ones around my eyes mark that I have lost a direct member of my family. A parent, sibling or child. This one," he said, pointing to the whorl on his left shoulder, "is for bravery, when I defended my town against creatures trying to eat our livestock. And this," he said, pointing to one on his back as he twisted so the audience could see, "was done by the midwife when my daughter was born. Learning how to tattoo is a rite of passage, and we in turn give one to our parents or closest friend when we have learned how. I have tattooed my wife and daughter for milestones in their lives, and people of my village have done the same to me. It may be a symbol of malfeasance in many other cultures, but in my own, bearing no tattoos is a sign of having lived no good life to speak of."

The room was silent. "If I may, Tek and Riag?"

Riag was one of the names of a heroine in Drax's books. There were others like Drax, scattered to the winds and orphaned? I heard the smallest of squeaks from the third row of seats. Scanning the audience, I spied a pair of grey-green humanoids, holding hands. Both were bald, one taller and more slender, with the bulge to show the start of a mammary at her chest. So, that's what his people looked like without the patterns of red crisscrossing their skin.

The two of them got up from their seats and walked to the front of the stage. Drax got out of his chair and slowly helped the two of them up, to cheers from their classmates.

"I think it's about time these two earned bravery, don't you?" the headmaster asked, addressing the entire room.

"Indeed." Drax said.

* * *

The kids always swarmed the stage after an event like this. But, for the first time, Drax had some adoring fans of his own, asking him what certain symbols meant and what his daughter had earned when she was their age. He laughed, explained, and talked with the kids while the siblings stood in his shadow, gleaming, and hugging each other tightly.

"I was afraid they were gonna make fun of us," the smaller one whispered.

"I was afraid Drax would say no," said the older girl.

Normally I'd be pissed at being called out on like the two kids had been, but the headmaster seemed to know what she was doing and what her students were like.

A query from one of the littlest ones snapped me out of my light daze. "Uhhh, mister Rocket, can… can I touch your fur?"

I laughed a little. Kids. This one probably older than me, but I kept my mouth shut on that front. "Just don't pull, okay?"

* * *

 

We were supposed to leave the planet after lunch, but Peter insisted we stay until Drax finished his work. I knew firsthand how painful tattoos could be, but I did go to fetch Drax when night fell. He was cleaning up some wickedly sharp tools as one of the school nurses applied a bandage to the older girl's left shoulder. I noticed that they both had bandages crisscrossing their faces as well, around the eyes. They were in an orphanage/boarding school after all.

"No swimming, no saltwater, no chlorine for two weeks. You two take baths until then, and try to keep water away from the wounds," Drax admonished. I should have let Peter get Drax, the smell of bleach was starting to overpower my nose.

"Finished?" I asked, nose twitching.

"Surprisingly yes," Drax replied. "I thought this would take longer, as I have been quite out of practice."

"Let's go home," I said, reaching for Drax's free hand, which he carefully engulfed my own paw within.

"Would you like to read tonight?" he asked, nervously, as we left the school grounds.

"Let's finish the one where Riag climbs a volcano to appease the gods," I replied, leaning in just a bit closer to his massive form.

"Kamaria liked that one best…" Drax said trailing off. But this time, it wasn't due to sadness.

"She'd got good taste. Learn'd it from the best, yeah?" I said, elbowing him in the shin.

Maybe I wasn't just indulging Drax. Having a father was kind of….

Nice.


	20. Nova, We Have a Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always room for family on the Milano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man, guys! What a ride! With this, I have officially crossed the 50,000 word mark, and end my anthology. It’s been quite a trip. Now that it’s over, I’m picking up my orphaned Rocket-centered puzzle story, The Hunt, again, so please check it out when you get the chance. You can just read it like regular fanfiction, or try and solve the puzzles within for extra story content and a bonus secret ending. I’ve already plotted all of it out, but building the puzzles has required quite a bit of time, effort, and computer coding, because many puzzles require scouring the internet for clues or solving actual physical puzzles.  
> I’m also going to bundle the cybernetic stories (Fix-it Felix, This is Why I Hate the Vet, Here’s Looking at You, Kid, One Rocket, In a Box, As Ordered, and Crybaby) into a single coherent story, cleaning up any inconsistencies/plot holes to make it a single independent fic and adding in some additional content on Gamora’s and Rocket’s respective creations.  
> I’ll also go back to writing some one shots, maybe fill some of the overlooked Kinkmeme requests (the ones in this anthology on Centurian language, taxes, and allergies all came from there).  
> Here be the final story of Nova, We have a Problem…. aptly titled “Nova, We Have a Problem”. I originally wrote a hilarious story where the Guardians and all the people from the series of shorts get into an epic laser tag fight for charity (although the Guardians make a big show of this being a life or death match, including epically faking their deaths when shot down), but the action sequences in the middle just… sucked. I’m not good at writing a coherent firefight, especially one where 14 characters are involved in a single arena (Peter fought Yondu and Kraglin, mad at him for marking them as character witnesses on his tax forms, Drax fought Tek and Riag demanding another tattoo, Rocket fought Dey and his daughter, who squeaked out how angry she was that he ruined her favorite jumper, Groot fought the Kree VP of Kotoban Electronics and her assistant, thankful that he broke her warehouse window, because she could earn a natural disaster settlement, and Gamora fought Mantis, who asked her about her love life). Maybe someone who’s good at action can lend a hand and I’ll make it a separate short (I have the opening and conclusion, and the general idea of how the fight should go)?  
> So, instead, I was inspired by the 100th Guardians comic, which I discussed with Pharm in one of the chapter comments; Rocket and Gamora have three sons named Uno, Duo, and Trey, but Rocket has a hard time admitting he’s the dad, calling them his nephews. He doesn’t withhold emotion or affection, but he doesn’t quite want to call them his kids. And in the new Rocket comics, he worries about being a good dad in issue #2. I used these as inspiration for the final chapter, and I think it fits much better with the tone of these stories than an out-of-the-blue action bonanza. It’s a bit quiet, and kinda snuggly.  
> Literally. There’s baby raccoons involved.  
> I’ve also gone back and added a table of contents to the first chapter, for those of you who came for a specific story or started reading partway, that gives brief story descriptions and relevant warnings/pairings.  
> Thanks, guys. You’re all pretty awesome.

[19] Nova, We Have a Problem

-Peter-

It was in the middle of our ‘night’ cycles on the ship when we got the comms. Nova Prime herself showed up on the screen. I was shirtless, and drenched in sweat from forgetting to change the thermostat in my cabin, but Nova more or less knows who she is dealing with when she gives me or the team a call. I pick it up as quickly as I can, so it doesn’t start blaring in everyone else’s’ cabins.

“Peter,” she says, gently and sternly at the same time. “We’ve raided an outgoing ship from the Keystone Quadrant.”

Keystone… we’d never been assigned there before, and I can’t ever remember actually going there. Why talk to us if the raid already occurred? There’s not much in that part of the universe, except… oh.

“Do you want me to put Rocket on the line?”

Nova looked at me and my messy bedhead, and the probable view of my bunk. “Why don’t I call you back in twenty minutes? Go wake everyone and get some caffeine in your systems. This may take a while.”

She made a slicing motion with her hand, and the holo disappeared. I rolled off my bunk, found a shirt, and began knocking on doors.

* * *

 

No-one really decided to get dressed proper; Gamora came up to the galley in her nightgown, and Rocket, shirtless in drawstring shorts. He’d become less self conscious about his body the more he stayed with us; he didn’t really need clothes to tell us he was a person or hide his cybernetics. Sometimes, when he had to fix something in the heat of the ship’s engine, he’d shuck even his pants off, fluff out his fur, and just work. A full set of clothes for him were really when we went planetside; he wasn’t so lucky with others treating him like the person he was. Groot even showed some sense of solidarity, and wore a matching orange and black jacket on occasion, always still awkwardly fiddling with its buttons or zipper.

Drax decided if we were up- and it was only an hour or two before we typically ended our sleep cycles anyway, he’d make us all a proper breakfast, cracking several eggs into a sizzling pan and boiling some leafy green vegetables with tubers.

Rocket slithered up and curled around Groot’s neck with a yawn, tail draping down Groot’s back and nails digging into his neck, just as the call from Nova Prime came in.

In retrospect, I’m glad his nails were dug in deep; the surprise would have sent him tumbling several feet to the floor of he hadn’t been attached like a leech.

“Rocket, this pertains to you and you alone,” Nova said as her image buzzed to life on the holo. “Would you like to speak with me alone?”

“Whatever it is, you can say it to everyone,” he replied, looking her in the eyes. I already told him they found a Keystone ship, so he had a decent idea of where this was going. We thought.

“We found some other experiments,” she said.

“If they’re mutilated, or embryos in a jar, like the other ones I remember, just kill ‘em,” he said, slowly, less slurred than usual. It was so deliberate, I could hear the servos in his neck as the voice chip turned his thought to speech. I noticed his mouth hadn’t even moved. He was too angry, too upset, to make the effort of faking mouth movements to match his vocal processors. “They deserve better than that.”

“Some were dead, Rocket, and some were mutilated. We took care of those in the most humane way we could,” Nova added sternly, but a sound of compassion in her voice. “But there is an animal, one that was left here with only a small amount of kibble in a gravity feeder and almost all her water gone. I’m guessing something happened here and the scientists on this ship fled. She’s been given proper food and water now, and some of our officers are looking after her. We think you need to meet her.”

“Is she… **_sentient_**?” Rocket moved his mouth again on the word **_sentient_** , but his movements weren’t quite fitting with the word… and not because I was hearing a translated version. He and I both spoke Xandarian well.

“No, or at the very least, she doesn’t have a voicebox installed in her to communicate she is,” Nova replied. “But her kits might be. The computers say that Subject 89-P-13’s semen, your seed, was used to artificially inseminate, and the infants, upon birth, were given cybernetic skeletal structures and augmentations. They thought starting from infancy in lieu of an adult… an adult **_you_** ,” Nova said, tripping on her words trying to avoid ‘specimen’ or ‘experiment’, “they thought it would be easier to have complacency if they started younger. And to test systems that would grow with the creatures they worked on.”

“They’re not in pain?” Rocket finally squeaked out, breathing out rapidly through his nose and keeping his mouth shut again. He was on the verge of hyperventilation, and Drax, having finished preparing breakfast, strode over to Groot to carefully rub circles along Rocket’s mid-back, below the exposed metal protrusions.

“It seems not,” Nova said. “And the mother is being highly protective for us to really inspect them.”

“Are you telling me to just take them?” Rocket asked.

“I’m not sure if this is the best choice,” Nova Prime replied honestly. “They’re very small. Maybe two weeks old, if that. Their ears are shut and they’re just drinking their mother’s milk. And there is no indication that the augmentations have made them sentient like you. There is a high probability, according to our scientists, that they are just… just what you were before, with very tough bones and a longer lifespan.”

“But you want me to see them?”

“It would be a disservice to them if they are sentient, Rocket, to not have another of their kind teach them. And their mother almost certainly is just an animal. She can show them the basics of your species, but I’m not really sure anyone can teach them how to activate their vocal processors or walk upright like you could. And I don’t want to turn them back over to the disgusting **_creatures_** that would preform these sort of operations. I don’t even think we could find them. We’ve been hunting them down for illegal experimentation for thirty-two years already and you and these kits have been our only finds so far.”

Rocket’s nose twitched. He recognized that the only ones Nova saw as creatures in this scenario were the scientists, not him or the innocent kits that were their creations.

“You have time, Rocket, to think. Sentient or not, they’re infants. They wouldn’t be learning how to walk to talk just yet, they can’t do much more than squirm and drink. We’re going to bring them to the Preta City Zoological Society; if you want to visit them, that is where they will be. They’ll be in good hands.”

“Thank you,” Rocket finally sputtered out. I noticed him slowly loosen his grip on Groot’s neck. If he’d been on anyone else’s’ he would have drawn quite a lot of blood.

“Do you have any questions?” Nova Prime asked.

“Can… can I name them?” he finally said, shoving his snout deep in Groot’s neck vines. If he didn’t have a voicebox, it would have been inaudible.

“Of course,” Nova said, then hesitated, before taking a chance with her next set of words. “They’re your children, after all.”

* * *

 

Breakfast was in near-silence, other than the clatter of plates and the slurping of eggs on hard bread slabs. I could see Drax want to say something to Rocket, maybe congratulate him on fatherhood? but due to the nature of the event, kept his mouth shut, only rubbing Rocket’s mid-back with his massive hand.

“I am Groot,” Groot finally said, in between bits of boiled tubers, to break the silence. Rocket looked up at him and squinted his eyes halfway, perking his ears up to attention. Rocket couldn’t smile like the rest of us; he looked like he was going to bite if he tried. So, squinting had sort of become shorthand for his approval, combined with the more animal tendencies of showing his emotions in his ears.

“Guess I am,” he replied, before perking his ears up completely and closing his eyes all the way. nose up to the ceiling.

“You… you wish to be a father?” Drax asked, surprised.

“Always liked kids,” Rocket replied, as he shoved another piece of hard toast in his mouth. “They don’t judge like the older ones do. They’re crazy smart, and not tied down by the ’can’t do that’ attitude too many people get when they’re older. They ask a ton of questions,” he added, and when he opened his mouth, I could hear him purr in satisfaction. “They’ll probably just be animals,” he quickly added, shifting in his chair and looking back down again, low rumble gone. “And I never wanna make my own kids... I mean, think of my legit datin’ pool, ugh. But at least while they’re tiny I can teach ‘em to walk or summat. They’re already in the universe, might ‘s well make sure they’re happy in it.”

With that, Drax grabbed Rocket by his torso, and pulled him into a hug. Groot came around the table, pulling both into an embrace, and Gamora and I joined the pile.

“If they are like you, Rocket, I will be proud to help you raise them. If they are as their mother, we will make sure to visit them within the zoo as often as we can and provide them with plenty of appropriate food and affection.”

Rocket looked up, and said something that surprised me. “Better be careful on that last one. I… uh, did some readin’ up on what I might be. Adult raccoons bite.”

-Gamora-

Rocket had pulled up information for us on raccoon infants, and despite Nova’s offer to wait, we realized that if their eyes had been shut, as infant raccoons were supposed to be, they’d be three weeks old or less. But, as Nova Prime only mentioned shut ears, the window in which Rocket could try to bond or teach them something like walk and climb, was closing quickly; they were already between two and three weeks old. By four or five weeks, they would have learned this behavior, and the mother of his children would also be loath to let him assist.

Kits stayed with their mother for a full year, but, were they showing signs of sentience, we decided we would take them with us after they were five months old and fully weaned from their mother. Rocket seemed uncomfortable with the idea, but keeping them too long with their mother if sentient would be detrimental to their development more than the alternative. They would already be able to walk, run, climb, and fight, and as we pieced together the bits of Rocket’s own experiences from his time in the laboratory, already be able to speak some words.

However, this all hinged on their intelligence, something all of us knew was a gamble at best.

We did not even think how many kits there could be, but it was plural. Two? Six? Could we really have seven Rockets running around the Milano without all of us (except possibly Groot) going insane?

Would it be better if the kits were just animals?

I bit my lower lip. The thought alone was horrid. As in any birth, this was a gamble in the genetic wind. We would wait and see what was to come.

And what was currently coming was Rocket, on all fours, in a fluffy grayish brown bodysuit.

He waddled towards us, with a zoo veterinarian taking pace at his side, clearly uncomfortable in the (admittedly quite adorable) getup. We’d called that day to let the zoo know we would be visiting, and Rocket sent them translated information on raccoons as we did. What food to feed them, how to handle them and their mother, how to make them a temporary den so the kits, which were prone to hypothermia without their full coat of fur, could stay warm and survive. They’d asked Rocket’s measurements, and created a furry bodysuit and placed it in the den with the mother and kits, so when he arrived, he could wear it and his own smell would be mixed with the familiar scents of the small, scared family in the zoo’s care, as well as cover his exposed back and reinforced struts at his collarbone and hips.

He stood up when he reached Peter, Drax, Groot and I, very self-aware. “Not used to doin’ that, needed some practice,” he said, before opening his maw widely.

“Groot, bud, can ya take out my chip?” he asked, and Groot carefully grew a small tendril, extending it down Rocket’s throat, and came back up with what looked to be a small speaker.

“’S my voicebox,” came Rocket’s distinct voice from the small black device, as he fell back on all fours and stretched out. “It’ll work on battery for about two hours, up to ten meters away. Enough that you guys can stay behind glass, and I can talk without scarin’ the kits. Or,” he added, shuddering, “ ** _Mom_**.”

“Man, this is weird,” Peter said, shaking his head. With Rocket on all fours, in the bodysuit, hiding his implants, and the sound of his voice no longer inside his body, I was inclined to agree.

I squatted to meet his eyes. “Best of luck in there,” I told him, extending my hand to his.

“Don’t want your scent on me right now, but thanks, Gams,” came Rocket’s voice out of Groot’s hand. He squinted at the four of us, then turned tail and followed a vet to the den.

* * *

 

We stood behind glass in a low-lit room, and Rocket sat on a small outcropping at its side, near the heater-and-blanket-filled crate that the kits and mom stayed in. He had small fruits and a few pet treats in his paws, and a few more in secret pockets in the bodysuit once they ran out. He had a comms in his ear set on the lowest setting, so we could talk with him and the zoologists could ask him questions. Groot held Rocket’s voicebox possessively, but then decided to place it at his own neck, wrapping tendrils to keep it from falling.

“C’mon, Groot, really?” Rocket said, speaking from Groot. He looked towards us against the glass and shook his head. “Actually, y’know, we could probably use this on missions sometime.”

“I am Groot.”

“Bud, I don’t keep it in my neck because I wanna. Most mammals have a vocal chord in there and the scientists made me as close as they could, I guess. It ain’t some kinda fashion accessory. Eh, whatever. Better than you droppin’ and breakin’ it.”

Rocket turned back toward the nest, and the mother had already poked her head out, smelling treats and an unfamiliar, possibly dangerous scent, which is a fairly accurate representation of Rocket. He opened his muzzle and clicked at her, tentatively holding out a pet biscuit. She cocked her head, stretched her body out as far as it would go, and snatched it from him.

“There’s three inside, right?” Rocket asked. Hearing his voice come from Groot as still disconcerting, but it was easier if I did not face Groot as he spoke.

“Yes, three males.”

“Still on milk only, yeah?”

“If they’re eating solid food, we haven’t seen it. There’s a camera in the den though.”

“I’m going to hang around here for a few days, if that’s okay,” Rocket said, tail swishing as he leaned back on his haunches. “I’d like to at least see them, at least once.”

“Just let us know as you want to come in and out,” said one of the technicians. “You’re free to use the bathrooms, showers, and bunks for the on-call staff.”

* * *

Rocket changed out of the fur suit and into a sleeveless shirt and loose, pocketed pants after three hours of waiting in silence in the enclosure. He chirped at the family a few times, gave some more fruit and treats, and allowed the mother to carefully come out and sniff him.

“She’s not trying to claw my face, so that’s a small victory,” he said, voicebox still rooted inside Groot’s throat, now with an energy cell attached, as he sipped from a juicebox in the zoo cafeteria. The place had closed to visitors a half hour prior, but the cafeteria staff had left the on-call veterinarians (who bombarded Rocket with questions) and us boxed food for dinner. Rocket had smirked at this; Drax, Peter, and he were all great cooks, but the kitchen staff had gone to great pains to portion Rocket a proper diet, and even turned his raw fruits into carved flower shapes.

Rocket bit into a piece of his jerky with gusto, pulling at the smoked meat until it snapped in two.

“You are not going to reinstall your voice?” I inquired.

“Pain in my ass to have Groot pull it out and install every day. Gag reflex,” he said. “I’ll have him put it back when we leave.”

I was getting used to seeing Rocket in one spot but hearing his voice come from another, but only just.

Rocket twitched in his seat, as a buzzer sounded from the cafeteria doorway. Dey, his Krylonian wife, and their daughter entered; he was carrying a stack of paperwork. Dey’s daughter, Tassa, wheedled her way onto Groot’s lap and reached her hand to Rocket, who nodded, his final piece of jerky hanging from his muzzle. He scooted a bit closer and she patted him on the head.

“Zoo! Zoo!” she cooed excitedly.

“Careful, now,” Peter joked. “You stay too long here and they’ll make you an exhibit, too.” Tassa squeaked and buried her face in Rocket’s crown of fur.

“So, birth certificates,” Dey said. looking at Rocket. Rocket shifted in his seat again. “Normally, I’d need the biological mother’s name, but…”

“I will represent,” I said.

“This is for genetic and hospitalization, Gamora. Parental rights are independent of this and don’t need multiple parties or parties of the opposing sex,” Dey replied.

“Oh.”

“Actually, no, I’d say it works,” Rocket replied, to Dey’s confused expression.

“He’s temporarily removed his voicebox to not scare the kits,” I explained.

As Dey softened to his normal face, he asked, “What do you mean, Rocket?”

“Well, they’ve got more or less the same skeletal structure as me, and mine is the same basic type as Gamora’s. They’ve got my genetics as the father, and Gamora’s additional rights as cybernetic donor if I can’t. It should actually work, in theory. Better than putting down the scared female in the enclosure. She’s definitely just a raccoon.”

Dey shrugged. “You know better than me, I’d say. Gamora it is. Who wants to witness?”

Everyone’s hands shot up. Dey laughed.

“We only need four, guys. Two for the dad, two for the mom.”

Groot patted Rocket lightly.

Drax boomed proudly, “I shall represent Gamora. Peter?”

“Ditto. Dey, why don’t you rep Rocket?”

“Can’t, I’m the notary. Neither can my wife.”

Rocket looked at the small team of vets to his left, past Groot. “Draw straws, guys, one of you’s gonna be my legal rep,” he laughed out. The four vets played some form of quick gambling game before the Kree woman across from Groot cheered and turned towards Dey.

“Well, before we sign papers, I also need names. And Rocket, you need a family name.”

“Raccoon,” he said, without hesitation.

“You sure? This is binding, and a pain to change.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna be Rocket Quill, am I?” I laughed a little. It sounded like a brand of writing implements.

“Rocket Raccoon it is. Their names? Birthdates?”

“They’re three weeks old, so pick a date and time three weeks ago. I ain’t choosin’ when they was born,” Rocket said. The Kree vet pulled out a pocket journal and scrolled through.

“There were a number of births here that week. May I make theirs the same time as a significant one here at the zoo?”

“Good by me, as long as I ain’t playin’ God on it,” Rocket replied.

“Chobean groundcat or Polusian vulpine?” she asked.

“Vulpine,” I cut in, before Rocket could protest.

“You heard the lady,” Rocket ended up saying.

“5th of Krig, three minutes after midnight,” she said, as she put the log away.

“Auspicious,” Drax said. “Being born just after the change of dates is a sign of good fortune.” I thought it sounded more painful, being stuck in the middle of the night giving birth to multiple children.

“Names?”

Rocket did not even hesitate when he answered. “The oldest,” he said, pointing to one of the pictures, “is Uno. The middle one,” he said, pointing to the second face shot, courtesy of the den camera, “is Duo, and the youngest is Trey.”

“How do you know who’s oldest? Or can even tell them apart?”

“The way their mother treats them, how much food they’re getting, and their infighting. I’m almost positive. I smelled them in the enclosure, and I heard them in there and from the camera. When they start vocalizing, I’ll know for sure, but I’ve got a name to a face even if their order is wrong. If… if they’re like me, I’ll ask ‘em if I can reprogram their voices to sound different, so the others can tell ‘em apart too. Their personalities should show through, at the very least.”

“Uno Raccoon, Duo Raccoon, and Trey Raccoon. What language are their names?”

“Halfworld,” Rocket said looking down. “They may never remember the place but it’s still a piece of ‘em.”

“Are those legal names on Halfworld?” Dey asked.

“Beats me,” Rocket replied with a shrug, as he carefully peeled Tassa off of him, who had started falling asleep.

“Meanings?”

“They ain’t naughty words, that’s all you should know,” Rocket replied.

“That’s good enough for me,” Dey said. “I’ll just need everyone’s signatures. Gamora, you need to sign these three extra documents, and Rocket, you need these two. Then we’ll do parental rights.”

“All five of us,” Rocket said, without hesitation. “We’re all their legal guardians.”

“Any primary?” Dey asked, not a hint of shock at Rocket’s statement.

“Nope. Equal rights. Kids are ours.”

“Done.”

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, Dey? You might want to take your own tyke back. She’s droolin’ on Groot here.”

Dey smiled. “Welcome to parenthood, Mister Raccoon,” he said, saluting as he grabbed up the reams of documentation and his wife plucked their child from Groot.

-Groot-

We stayed at the zoological park another two and a half days, Rocket returning to the enclosure in the disguise each time, multiple times per day. Every instance, the stigma-bearer would leave her warm copse for a little while longer, and Rocket would be elated, handing her small gifts and swishing his tail. By the end of the second day, he had apparently earned enough trust (or provided enough food) to the stigma that she allowed him inside, under her supervision. We observed on the den camera, but his speaking-box could not contain his excitement.

“My sons,” he said, his sound reverberating though my boughs.

“You’re a dad,” replied Peter.

Drax hummed in agreement.

* * *

 

“I don’t want to jinx it,” he said that evening, as he tore through another boxed meal provided by the staff.

“Jinx what, exactly?” Drax asked in confusion.

“I listened real close,” he replied. “I know what my parts all sound like. The microphone ain’t picking it up, but I heard their stuff when I was in there. They’ve got what I’ve got, and no exposed skeletal parts to boot. Don’t get me wrong, I am pissed as hell at the idjits on Halfworld, but they did it right this time. They ain’t gonna get cybernetics rash like me, an’ they got nanos n their system that are expandin’ their skeletal systems as they grow.”

“You think they’re…” Gamora said, swallowing before finishing her thought. “People?”

“It’s looking more likely,” Rocket said. I hugged him close, and he dug his claws into my bark lightly as a way of thanks.

“I’m gonna try groomin’ ‘em tomorrow if momma will let me,” he added, as he downed some icewater. “I wanna look at their scarrin’.”

“Then what?” Drax asked.

“I’m getting’ stir crazy, and there’s not much else I can do. I say we leave for a week or so, let ‘em get bigger. I’ll let momma teach ‘em to walk, she really don’t like me, just the sweets. When they’re big enough to walk outta the den on their own, they’re big enough to be handled and momma won’t reject ‘em if they smell like people, so long as they don’t get too cold.”

“I am Groot,” I asked. _Have you named the stigma?_

“Named their momma? No, she has a call,” he said, making a series of click-whistles.

“Sounds like Centurian,” Peter said, wistful.

“Yondu’s tongue?” Drax replied.

“Yeah, a bit. Wonder if he can speak raccoon?” Peter said, scrunching his face-bark into a contorted shape.

* * *

 

We returned to the park some days later, when Rocket’s seedlings had become saplings.

When we returned, they looked like small, toy versions of Rocket. The gift shop was even selling plush versions of his saplings as souvenirs. Rocket seemed upset at first, but realized that their care was being paid for in full by the zoological park, and tried to buy three of his own, but the salesperson just shook his head and told him they could not do that, before handing him a massive bag from behind the counter of the toys- five, with two large and three small, with one of the large in a flight suit. It also contained three small toy spaceships in varying colors, and some elementary school science kits, sketchbooks, and wax pencils. The veterinarians, too, were hoping Rocket would be able to be with his sons.

This time, the saplings and their mother were in a new, wooded enclosure. Rocket did not wear the fluffy costume or ask me to take his voice, and was simply allowed to enter their new space in his clothing, walking upright.

“Groot, ya commin’?” he asked.

“I am Groot,” _As long as it’s okay…_

“Course it’s okay. You’re a tree. Raccoons love trees,” he said, kicking me in the shin.

We both entered he exhibit, and he immediately climbed up to my neck, chirping and looking downwards. One looked up from the ground, calling back. And then the Stigma came, barking and whooping. Rocket vocalized back at her, and they chittered for a bit.

“Domestic spat?” Peter asked over the comms.

“More or less,” Rocket responded in people-words, tail in my face and his head pointing straight down at the ground. “She does remember me, though, so that’s good.”

Now all three of Rocket’s saplings were at my roots, dinking their claws into them and sniffing.

“I am Groot,” I boomed. _Hello, little ones._

“Don’ do that, Groot, ya scarin’ ‘em,” Rocket hissed. “Just, I’unno, be a tree for now.”

“Ahmgroot?” came a small sound from below.

“Ahmgroot?” chirped a second.

“Ahmgroot?” copied a third.

“Groot…” Rocket started.

“Groot?” copied one.

“Are they talking, Rocket? Or just repeating?” Gamora asked over the comms.

“Dunno,” he whispered quietly. He was shaking, and struggling to hold on. I put a limb under his weight, and he let go of my bark, settling in, before jumping down. The stigma did not attack, but kept a very close eye on Rocket.

Rocket touched one of the saplings. “Uno.”

“Uno.”

“Uno.”

“Uno”

Then another. “Duo.”

“Duo.”

“Duo.”

“Duo.”

“Trey.”

“Trey.”

“Trey.”

“Trey.”

He then touched Duo again, and all three chirped.

“Duo.”

He ran up my side.

“Ahmgroot,” chirped the chorus of voices.

“Close… close enough,” Rocket choked out. He buried his face in my hollow and cried.

-Yondu-

“Y’all neeed me to do WHAT now?” I bellowed.

“Uh, well…” Peter said, hesitating on the line.

“This’d better be important, boy!”

“Trey is stuck in the fuel line of the backup generator,” Peter exhaled out in a breath. “We’re stranded in the Dorian Sector, got hit by a solar flare, and he got stuck in there. Kid’s panicking and not totally online. We need to calm him down and fish him out.”

“Not online? Kid a robot?”

“Rocket’s son. One of three. And he’s out, same as his kids.”

“Hoo boy, I did not sign up for this.” I whistled out a string of curses in Centurian. Peter winced. Forgot the boy understood them all.

“What’s the chances of another flare?” I asked.

“Unlikely. Analog equipment is picking up no traces of another lashing,” said the gray beast of a brawler Peter had for a crewmate.

“I’ll take a small pod and drift there soon. Gimmie twenty, boy.”

As I ended the transmission, I heard the brute ask, “Twenty of what?”

* * *

 

I hooked up the breathing tunnel as soon as I could, and strode inside Quill’s ship. Gamora had been laid on a couch, I could hear her breathing hitch. The tree had made small nests, and was holding two hissing, gnashing whatever-the-hells-Rocket-was in small balls of wood. A third ball, partially formed, was protruding from his back, and I guessed the tree didn’t have enough time to enclose the third kid before he ran off screaming. Peter was holding Rocket himself, who was purring in his arms.

“This is the asswipe what almost blew up my ship?” I asked.

“He’s got something of a solar-flare-induced concussion right now,” Peter replied, stroking the furball’s head. Rocket opened an eye and blinked, before flailing out of Peter’s arms.

“I ain’t catchin’ him too,” I started, but the fuzzball just shook himself off and stood up on his hind legs.

“Oh, hey, Yondu,” he said. “Need to steal something from us?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow and snorting.

Guess he’s awake at least.

“Peter asked me to save yer kid,” I replied, and he snarled loudly.

“ ** _Fuck_**.”

“I know,” I replied. “But Pete here’s called the best. I’ve gotten his ass outta more fuel lines than he’s got brain cells.”

“That’s not too many times.”

“’S more than one, and that’s the important bit,” I quipped.

“Point,” Rocket replied, cracking his shoulder, as he ran with me to the fuel line, servos humming in overdrive.

* * *

 

“’Anks, mister,” the grease-covered rodent said, as he looked up at me. His mouth didn’t move, but I could hear the words from his throat. Freaky little kid.

“Trey, at least pretend to move your lips when you talk, “ Rocket said, exasperated. “It don’t even need to match. People will just think their translator’s workin’.”

“But **you** don’t,” Trey protested, as I rolled up my sleeves and tried to degrease the squirming kid with fluid and an old rag. I really had no need to stay, once I’d coaxed the kid out and sealed the line back up, but something about Rocket’s runts intrigued me.

“I don’t among these guys,” Rocket said, spreading his arms to gesture at the ship. “But I don’t need people planetside thinkin’ you’re a bot or a toy, yeah?”

“’S a game, boy,” I said, as I rubbed his tail the wrong way to get the degreasing fluid onto the fur. “Make ‘em guess what language they think yer speakin’. I do it all the time.”

“You’re funny, mister.” He giggled a bit as I wiped the mess away.

“’S what I’m here for, kid. Uncle Yondu,” I said, holding out a finger. He wrapped a tiny, clawed hand around it. I might need an excuse or two to come visit these little runts.

-Drax-

To say that Rocket’s sons were a handful would be an understatement. At eight months old, they were an armful. Each. Of body mass, as they were already almost Rocket in size.

At eight months old my daughter was crawling. Rocket’s boys were **_building_**.

The eldest, Duo, as Rocket had been not quite right about the order, but very right in distinguishing them by scent, was an impressive tailor. He was already creating all of the clothing we wore in the vacuum of space, and we trusted him with our lives with it. He made battle armor for Gamora from lizard-plating and rawhide, and clothing for themselves and Rocket, as finding garments in their size was difficult at best. He stuck closest to both Rocket and Gamora, as he’d picked up the basics of sewing from watching her stitch their father back together after a particularly brutal battle.

The youngest child, Trey, was already quite an artist, and the most eloquent conversationalist of the three. When we went planetside for a job, he would set up an easel and canvas on the street and sell wax-pencil portraiture and small sculptures made from Rocket’s salvage for machine parts, earning more than enough pocket money for all three of them. Aside from his father, he enjoyed the company of Peter and Groot, learning how to charm from the former, and how to express himself from the latter.

The middle child, Uno, however, was quiet, reserved, and unsure of his passion or vocation. He followed his brothers, but did not seem to enjoy the things they did.

“Maybe you could teach ‘im summat?” Rocket asked. “It’s fine if he can’t find summat he likes just yet, they’re still little. But I’d like to see him try.”

I found Uno curled up in a swirl of blankets, one of several makeshift nests on the ship. He was reading off his tablet, in a language I did not know.

“Are you enjoying the information you are reading?” I asked him. His fur puffed up under his green coveralls, and his ears pressed back. I had interrupted him.

“Nothing special,” he replied.

“What was it? I clearly prevented you from finishing something you were engaged with,” I replied.

“It’s stupid.”

“Neither it nor you are not stupid.”

He curled up, his back legs over his head, and his tail wrapped around his face. Embarrassment.

I took the tablet, and scrolled. I did not need to autotranslate the text to know what it was. The formatting alone gave me the information I required. A recipe.

“Would you like to cook with me?” I asked, gently poking his foot. His joints flexed around and gripped my finger tightly.

“I’ll get fur in everything,” he choked out.

“You know,” I said, as I sat down, my finger still caught in the raccoon-trap. “Or perhaps you do not, because Rocket has had to chase after you and your siblings on the ship for the past few months while we continue to work, but your father is an excellent cook. And he did not get fur in our food. The only one who has done so has been Peter, and he apologized for it.”

Uno uncurled a little.

“Really truly?” he asked, peeking out from between his legs.

“Do I lie?” I asked in return.

He loosened his grip on my finger, and I shook out my hand. When they were older, Rocket’s sons would be brutal in a fight. For now, I lifted Uno up and on my shoulder.

“Let us go and make dinner. We have eight people to feed.”

-Rocket-

Uno left the ship on his second birthday. Culinary school. We go to Xandar every once in a while; he’s made a name for himself doing Terran cuisine. Peter swears ten ways to Morag that he’d never heard of anything on Uno’s menu, but I checked the Terran ‘net. It’s Plains Indian stuff.

Things he or I would have probably eaten if we lived were we’d been supposed to. Middle of the USA, same as Quill. Not that I’d ever admit to Quill that he and I could have even come from the same territory, let alone the same planet.

Duo left on his fourth.

He didn’t really need to, like Uno, to sell his designs. But there’s only so much of a workshop he could have on the Milano, even after we’d made a bigger one. I understood. He’d lived on his own for a while, but realized pretty quick that he missed a nesting buddy. He and his girlfriend, an Xandarian, had moved in a year later- three months ago- with Uno and his best friend in a multifamily house. It’s nice. Huge. On the bay, near the zoo. Not in the capital proper, but I built them each some small groundcraft. They can visit momma whenever they want, and usually buy some plush toys to send to the hospital, and go with the gifts. Kids love them. Both the toys and my boys.

Trey is still here. He’s way more like Peter than he is me, but that’s what you get for being raised by a village. He took over Duo’s small workshop, and paints the vistas as we go. It’s a good gig for him.

They’re my kits. Always will be.

He and I both curl in Groot’s limbs, keep the same sleeping cycle. We time it with Uno and Duo, which is actually easier than expected. We all have odd hours.

Groot made two cuttings of himself a while back. They’re not like the one he became when we fought Ronan; they’re true cuttings, his own children, none of his memories. That’s fine, they will make new ones under Xandar’s suns.

They’re not growing like Groot did when he regrew. It’s their first time each, and they’re taking it slow. Which is fine.

We’ve got a lifetime ahead of us.


End file.
